


Fall & Rise

by BlazeEBlake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Mary, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dark Castiel, Gen, Growing Up, Hunter Mary Winchester, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kid Dean Winchester, Kid Sam Winchester, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mary Lives, Minor Character Death, Parental Bobby Singer, Slow Burn, Teen Dean Winchester, Teen Sam Winchester, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-01-05 11:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 67,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12188811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazeEBlake/pseuds/BlazeEBlake
Summary: During the war in Heaven, Castiel falls to earth and ultimately joins Lucifer as a Prince of Hell. Centuries later, he finds himself reluctantly ruling Hell in Lucifer’s stead, embittered by both his circumstances and the decisions that brought him there. But when a plan to to reignite the war surfaces, Castiel is launched into a battle of a different kind, one that pits him against those he once commanded and has him protecting the very beings whose existence led to his exile.On the night of November 2nd, 1983, Castiel’s interference in Hell’s plan brings him in contact with Winchester family, and from that day forward,  as they struggle through the repercussions of circumstances that irrevocably change and bind them, they are each of them forced to reexamine their understanding of their place in the world, what they are willing to fight for, and who they truly are.





	1. The Path Where No-One Goes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooo Boy... So, I struggled a lot with getting this started and finding a direction, but here we are at the beginning. I'll do my best to post once a week, and as soon as I know (if ever?), I'll try and post how many chapters this will shake out to be. Thanks to Tumblr, once again, for the inspiration, and I hope you enjoy!

**BEFORE THE BEGINNING**

Castiel rested at the edge of an endless field, just one of a host of paradises his Father had built. This one was newer than the many realms that comprised Heaven, but it was also the quietest place he had been able to find in these times of roiling tumult. Nearly everywhere else war was being waged, and the violence of the clash between his brothers and sisters was nearly as shocking as the catalyst at its center. Lucifer had been their Father’s favorite since the beginning, and the notion that he had fostered a difference of opinion so fractious as to rend all of heaven asunder was almost unfathomable. Then again, there was some sense to the idea that God’s most adored would take exception to bowing down to any newcomer, particularly an untried species mere moments beyond its inception.

For his part, Castiel did what he had always done: held fast to his faith and aligned himself with the commands handed down to him. It was what he was born to do, what the whole of his being unquestionably existed for, and yet mere moments after the conflict ignited, the seed of something dreadfully foreign had founds its way to his heart. He hadn’t understood it in the beginning, and that had made it easier to bat away in the early days of battle, when it was difficult enough accepting that so many of his brethren were now an enemy at the mercy of his calculated strategy. But then the inevitable moment had come where circumstances had quite literally forced his hand, and he had found his blade buried to its hilt in a member of his family. In that instant, his horror and revulsion of the deed had helped the unnamed feeling to bloom in his chest, and for the first time he felt doubt. As the last wisps of his felled brother exploded out of being, Castiel had fled, all at once unable and unwilling to return to the fray.

It wasn’t a question of loyalty or belief, both of which still very much lay with God. The problem was that he could not reconcile such stubborn obstinance with the brutality and cost of life. Each side had agreed to employ the same savagery they had once shown to monstrosities and creatures of darkness to their own kin, and over what? An archangel’s injured pride? Beings that were, though fascinating, simply too young to inspire such discord? Lucifer was wrong to question the word of God, to drag so many into his objections, but one had to wonder where the right was in the consensus to set brother upon brother.

The cacophonous sound of flapping wings assailed his senses and shook him from his ruminations. Soon, he was surrounded by the garrison he had so recently left behind.

“Sisters, Brother,” he greeted soberly.

“Are we, Castiel?” Uriel asked, sounding almost bored in his usual way, “Brothers, I mean. After all, a war is being waged in the name of our Father, against those who would defy him, and yet you stand apart.”

“It is because of family that I am here,” Castiel insisted, fighting to keep any and all pleading from his voice, “To kill my own… It is abhorrent.” Uriel sneered and made as if to further their argument, but before he could offer any manner of retort, the garrison’s leader cut him off with a sharp glance.

“Their decisions are the aberration, Castiel,” Anna admonished, “The moment they chose to rebel, they were no longer our kin. Sparing them any mercy or sympathy is as good as siding with--”

“I am not on Lucifer’s side,” he interrupted with a growl.

“But not on ours either,” Ishim snapped. Castiel turned to him, not bothering to hide his scowl. Ishim had been almost too eager to bow down to the humans, his fascination with his father’s new creation bordering on the obsessive.

“Castiel,” Anna continued, “See reason. Return to the battlefield before this transgression is past forgiveness.”  
“There is no question here, brother,” Uriel added, spitting the fraternal descriptor, “Either you are among the faithful or you are nothing more than a traitor, deserving of the same fate as those vile enough to oppose the natural order.” Castiel fell silent, peering up at his now former comrades and finding not an ounce of understanding.

“I,” he began finally, “ I cannot--”

“Enough!” a voice boomed over a second round of feathered churning. Michael alighted between Castiel and the group, and towered above them, menacingly.

“Michael,” Castiel rasped, unable to mask his awe at being granted such an audience.

“Your indecision speaks volumes,” He intoned gravely, “For which I have neither the time, nor the patience. I have had my fill of desertion from far worthier than the likes of you.” A hopeful kind of confusion washed over him. Could it be that others had refused to take part in their brothers’ deadly squabble? Castiel squinted up at the archangel, but the cold rage staring back at him killed any possibility of continued discourse.

  
“Hold him,” Michael ordered. Without hesitation, Uriel and Ishim converged upon him, roughly jerking him up from his repose. Anna remained rooted to her position at Michael’s side, pensive but silent nonetheless.

“You find yourself unable to stand with your brethren,” Michael proclaimed, “Too cowardly to align yourself with any of us, even those who betray our very existence. In doing so you choose no one, not even our Father, and such a choice cannot be concluded in half measures.”

“Brother” Castiel attempted, “I--”

“By the powers entrusted to me,” Michael persisted, “I cast you out, Castiel.” An immeasurable force connected with what felt like the very center of his being, and all at once he was falling.

 

* * *

 

 

The impact with his final destination was dreadful, rattling through him without any hint of mercy, and then all was still. There was an awful finality to it all, but a welcome one if it meant the end of the descent. In that gruesome tailspin there had been pain the likes of which he had never known, and the impossible sensation of being both burned and frozen that seemed to stretch on forever. There existed no part of him that wasn’t raw, aching, and miserable, but at least he was no longer falling.

After an indefinite stretch of time, he ventured a cursory surveillance of his new surroundings. He couldn’t see much from his prone position, but the little he was able to take in only added to his growing dread. With an agonized cry he dragged himself up for a better look, inciting a fresh wave of pain to wash over him. A brief but more schooled examination soon confirmed what he had already suspected. This world was vast and singular, so opposite of everything he had come to know in his existence, and a cruelly fitting juxtaposition of all he was now banished from.

Unbidden, new sensations began to filter into his consciousness, deepening feelings of despair, confusion, and even anger. He hadn’t rebelled, he had never lost faith; he had loved his family, and for that he had been punished and cast down to a forsaken land, alone.

“Castiel?” a voice called out, familiar and energetically at odds with current environs. To the best of his ability, Castiel twisted toward the outcry, all too quickly finding its impossible source.

“No,” he murmured, “You can’t be here. Why would you be here?”

“You don’t sound very happy to see me little brother,” Lucifer returned petulantly, “I’d have thought a familiar face would be welcome in this desolate little realm. How _are_ you enjoying Earth by the way?”

“Earth?” Castiel repeated, the trajectory of his shock twisting ever so slightly.

  
“Yes. This is father’s brave new world. Maybe I’ve missed something, but it certainly isn’t living up to all the fanfare.” Anger surged through Castiel anew.

“Fanfare?” he echoed incredulously, “Is that what you call the war raging within our family?”

“Perhaps a poor choice of words,” Lucifer replied, carefully edging closer to him.

“Shouldn’t you be tending to all that fanfare?” Castiel needled, foregoing all sense of self-preservation. He had already fallen, what more could Lucifer do to him that he couldn’t accept or even welcome?

“I believe you’ve been down here longer than you think,” Lucifer mused, coming to rest closer beside him than was comfortable, “Either that or your descent was far less rapid than most.”

“What are you talking about?” he grumbled in return.

“The war in Heaven is over, Castiel,” he said. Another layer of disquiet settled over him, nearly drowning out his brother’s continued dialogue.

“Michael remains at Father’s right hand” Lucifer explained, his tone airy but not without edge, “Spreading his misguided word to the others, while I reside here, an exile just like you.” This was enough to shake Castiel from his astonishment.

“Do not compare me to you,” he snarled, “Especially as you denounce our Father in the same breath.”

“Denounce?” Lucifer uttered, drawing back as if stung, “You have me all wrong brother. I mourn for our father, for what he has allowed to lead him astray, for how Michael feeds it all. And as for you and I? The comparison is unavoidable. Do you not love our Father, as I do? Was your faith not strong, as mine is even now? You had a moment of question, perhaps even fear and they turned against you.”

“You know nothing of my circumstances.”

“I know enough. I know that you refused to fight. That you were afraid--”

“It wasn’t fear that stopped me! It was repulsion! Repulsion at how easy it would have been, and the senselessness of it all! This was not my first battle or even war. With all my knowledge and experience I could have decimated scores of our brethren, and for what? To what end, Lucifer? Because you could not beat back your pride enough to do as you were told?” He glared at the archangel, who in turn appeared sadly amused.

“Your words only tie our struggles closer together,” he said softly, “Much like you, I questioned the notion of blind obedience to a duty that would only do our family undeniable harm.”

“And then you in turn did undeniable harm to our family,” Castiel countered.

“War wasn’t my idea,” Lucifer sighed, “I begged Michael to see reason, to help me steer Father back to sense. But he refused, leaving me no choice but to defend myself and the others who refused to remain blind. I never raised a blade toward anyone who wasn’t out for my very existence, thanks to Michael’s fervor. Then again, I don’t have to tell you about his zealotry. After all, look at what he did to you: left your grace to wither inside of you, burned your beautiful wings nearly to the bone…” Castiel started to glance around at himself but paused, shivering and fixing his gaze to the ground. Even before stirring he had known his wings were damaged, perhaps beyond all recognition, but he could not bring himself to behold what remained of them, much as he could not bring himself to fully admit there were truths buried in his brother’s words.

“What do the methods and meanings to your madness matter now?” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “The war is over and what has been lost can never be regained.”

“Now that is where you are wrong,” Lucifer countered, some of his eerie good cheer returning, “There is plenty left to be done and even more to be gained. But, I won’t be able to do it all on my own.”

“You cannot possibly be asking for my help.”

“Oh but I am. ”

“You are free, of course, to ask all you wish, but the answer is and will always be no.”

“Castiel, please. You and I are all there is of the fallen. I need you.” Castiel frowned at him.

“Surely, “ he began, “One of the rebellious who fought beside you--” Lucifer gestured in the negative, and Castiel paused in surprise.

“There is no one else,” Lucifer said firmly, “Michael was under strict orders not to end my life, a passing final courtesy of father’s I suppose, but all the rest… I told you, he refused to see reason. His loyalty is like a poison in him, a venom to all those he perceives as threats to his interpretation of gospel.” Renewed misery clawed at Castiel as he tried to fathom the sheer number of lives forever lost to the insanity his family had fallen prey to.

“That’s why we have to make Father see, Castiel,” Lucifer coaxed, “Make him see that errors have been made, first in what began this whole mess and then in placing power into Michael’s hands. If we can manage the first, then the rest will simply fall into place ”

“You believe you can prove to father that he is… Wrong?” Castiel asked skeptically, a precarious curiosity overriding his wariness.

“I don’t believe; I know,” he insisted, “It all comes down to the humans. They were the problem, and so they must be the solution.”

“How? There are so few of them, and each barely beyond infancy.”

“True, but we don’t need many to exhibit what I have known since the beginning: they are selfish, destructive creatures, Castiel. Given the choice, they will choose themselves and their own physical pleasure over God’s love, time and time again.”

“That can’t be. Why would father put his faith into creatures such as those?”

“Precisely my point. He is lost, and we must show him the way.”

“What could I do? My abilities were far outmatched by my commanders prior to my fall, and now I am… There is hardly anything left of me.” He fell silent, ruefully taking stock of his broken body as if he needed further convincing of its diminished state. Whether the archangel’s statements were true or not, he failed to see how a lesser angel such as himself, now made that much less, could be of service in the grand scheme of anything.

“Castiel, you are far more than you give yourself credit for,” Lucifer said, his tone dangerously assuaging, “You said it yourself: you have had centuries of experience, and tactical education. I will need your skills to see this through.”

Castiel bristled.

“For more war? More killing?”

“No,” Lucifer replied, “I would never incite further crusades of Heaven. However, there are no assurances that if our plan is discovered, Michael will attempt to thwart it. In his blind obstinance he would send squadrons after us, garrisons of our own incited to destroy us. We will need to mount a powerful defense.”

“I will not kill any more of our family.”

“Then we will have to make an army so powerful that Michael himself will be deterred, whose strength will be such that all those who face it will swiftly be made to surrender.” Castiel felt a frightening uncertainty grip him. Discourse with Lucifer was one thing, but to take any of his proposals into consideration was lunacy. Then again, everything since the first rumblings of conflict in Heaven had seemed unreal and insane. He was once a good soldier, yet for all his notions of loyalty he had been deemed a traitor. More than that, if his brother was to be believed, their father, the end and the beginning of all things, was capable of misjudgement and error. Who was he to define logic any longer?

“Come with me, Castiel,” Lucifer urged, “I will show you the truth in my words and together we will set things right.” As if in answer, pain flared through him, drawing a sharp and audible gasp from him.

“Ah,” Lucifer exclaimed, “How selfish of me. Rattling on while you suffer. My apologies, brother. Let me assist you.” The archangel touched him and he could feel himself being knitted back together. When Lucifer pulled away Castiel attempted a few careful motions, miraculously feeling no trace of his earlier torment. His hope perilously close to resurfacing, he stole a glance at his wings and found them whole and beautiful.

“How?” he marveled, giving each renewed appendage a tentative flex, “Why?”

“I do not need the powers of Heaven to bolster me, brother,” Lucifer beamed, “My gifts are my own, and I will use them as I see fit. As long as you are by my side, my strength is yours.

“I--” he stammered, both grateful and confused, “Thank you… Brother.”

“Please, no need to thank me. Simply follow me, that you may see what I see.” Castel hesitated, trapped between everything he had understood in the past and reality as it now stood. To step in this new direction was to accept Michael’s sentencing and become exactly what he had been labeled by his swift judgement. He knew he wasn’t thinking clearly, and tried to push past his troublesome feelings for the cold logic he so often relied upon, but the hurt in his heart pressed against him at every turn, immune to his earlier healing and demanding in its persistence.

“Follow you where?” He asked finally. Lucifer smiled in a way that managed to be both captivating and fearsome.

“This world is not all desolation and emptiness,” he said, “In fact, I know of a lovely little place not far from here. A garden.”

 


	2. Nobody's Fault But Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as much as I thought about leaving just the prologue to whet a few appetites, I decided it might be nicer to give the actual first chapter too. Again, in the future, it'll be one a week at best.

**CENTURIES LATER**

 

Days in hell were drearier with each passing century. For so many, human, demon, and he supposed even angel alike, it symbolized the darkest and most terrifying of eventualities. But for Castiel it was merely drudgery that had quickly gone stale and served as a daily reminder that his existence was far from what he ever pictured.

Everything had been far easier at the start, when his anguish and resentments were still raw and bolstered by the realization that Lucifer’s assertions had been correct. War had been waged over humanity’s worth, but it had only taken moments for them to turn their back on God’s gifts in the name of temptation and willful disobedience. Their Father had indeed made a mistake.

When the archangel was cast down even further for his revelations, Castiel had gladly followed and agreed to oversee all that Lucifer no longer could, the question of his decisions crumbling beneath the weight of everything he had witnessed. Before long he had become the most fearsome Prince of Hell, toiling for years on end to simultaneously punish and train those who had all too eagerly forsaken the Lord for the hope of all manner of trifling reward. With each prolonged instance of torture he satisfied his dual sense of loathing at what he had become and those he was surrounded by, all the while molding demonic lieutenants capable of havoc his brother insisted God would be unable to ignore.

That had been the beginning, long ago when he believed he was working toward something, before the slow creep of time had worn away at each and every one of his hopes and expectations. God was not only unconcerned but absent in the grand scheme of it all, and those that remained in Heaven cared not for what the humans had revealed themselves to be, in spite of the constant reminders that lay in Earth’s own wars and genocides. Instead, any unquestionably wicked individuals were sent to Hell for punishment at the hands of Lucifer’s minions, himself included, while all the rest retained the love and blessing of the lord, provided they remained within the very broad boundaries offered them. In the end, even Lucifer had been a disappointment. He and Castiel hadn’t had much occasion to speak after his imprisonment, but years of scant conversation had proved him to be just as misguided as the rest of the family, and as much a victim of his own selfishness and pride as the beings he despised.

Now, second only to his subdued brother, Castiel presided over all of Hell, still feared by all those who crossed and served him but in his own mind little more than a bureaucrat tasked with doling out suffering to Earth’s vile miscreants.

On this day, the bureaucracy was particularly pressing.

“The latest arrivals have all been secured,” an underling droned, “And all Hellhounds have been accounted for, minus one left afield for a crossroads bargain...” Castiel fought off the urge to scoff. If Lucifer could see his army now. Hell’s once and true king had been sealed away for so long that most of his chosen few had abandoned their master’s vague cause for parts unknown. Even Cain, once so fervid at the helm of the Knights of Hell, had distanced himself from all manner of demonic chaos, leaving Hell’s once great army a shadow of its former self. Not that Castiel felt particularly bereaved of any of it. His brilliance as a tactician aside, he had never had much taste for war and the appeal shrank nearly tenfold when paired with the prospect of demons for brothers in arms. Once relieved of his military duties, Castiel was left with little to do beyond a general upkeep of the Underworld and its purpose as a prison of the afterlife, something he largely left up to those that served beneath him. He took no pride in his position and the catharsis of grueling punishment had long ago lost its effect upon him.

Yet, for all his loathing of the domain, he never envisioned himself anywhere else. A part of him would always long for home and his family, but the cool, rational remainder of him knew how impossible such a return was at this stage of things. Furthermore, even if by some actual miracle Heaven would allow his return, he couldn't be sure that he would accept it knowing what he did now. Earth, a living breathing manifestation of the causes behind his downfall, was far beyond the realm of possibility. Simply put, he had made his bed.

“Sir?” Another said, the edge in their voice suggesting that this was not their first attempt to capture his attention. Sighing, he shifted a set of his many eyes from an innocuous spot on the wall to the three demons before him, each cloaked in the form of a human.

“Yes?” he acknowledged, glaring down at disinterestedly from his perch in the cavernous hall he often commanded from.

“Are we dismissed?” one of them asked, the lips of her female vessel curling ever so slightly.

“By all means, go,” he replied with a wave of his hand. The woman offered him a final curt nod and led the others away. Her thinly veiled contempt was not new, and there had been a time when he would have made an example of her, but the disrespect was of little import in these times. His true form was not at all as massive or overwhelming as it had been before the fall, but he could still see, almost smell, the fear it inspired. This, alongside widespread knowledge of the kind of cruelty he was capable of, kept the demons well enough in check, and that was all that mattered.

As he began to roll his eyes away from the departing figures, he caught sight of another approaching, and his own mouth pulled back into a sneer.

“Uncle!” Azazel called, a broad smile stamped across his features, “Just the man I was looking for.”

“I am not a man, Azazel,” Castiel chastised, “I am—“

“A multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent,” he finished, coming to rest on the topmost stair before the throne, “My bad.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. By way of passing interactions required of him, and the modicum of omniscience granted to him by his brother, he was aware enough of humanity’s modern culture, as well as the necessity of a demon being able to blend in. What he did not understand was Azazel’s insistence in wholly adopting their slang and idioms beyond his duties. He was hundreds of years old and speaking like a child. It also did not help that he held less love for Azazel than any of Lucifer’s abominations.

“Have time for a quick chat, Uncle Cas?” the demon asked, quirking up an eyebrow.

“Stop calling me that,” Castiel rumbled , “And I suspect you will have something to say whether or not I have time to spare.”

“I’ll get right to it then,” he smirked, undeterred, “For a while now, I’ve been working on something important. Huge actually. For father.” He could already feel himself growing bored. Lucifer had always confided in Azazel more than most, and they had resumed their discourse with renewed vigor after the demon had managed to forcibly add himself to the short list of beings capable of visiting the arcangel, after ages of dogged searching. As Castiel understood it, their conversations primarily consisted of Azazel dutifully absorbing the Morningstar’s latest muted tantrum, and each time they spoke, the demon seemed to contrive some scheme or another that promised to honor his maker and elevate the glory of Hell. These plans always amounted to little, if anything, of note.

“You see,” the Azazel continued, “a while back, we got to talking, and he laid out a plan to end all plans, one to set things straight. Crack the cage once and for all." Castiel kept his expression stony and guarded, but something in him stiffened. This was new and troubling.

“He asked you, you alone, to subvert the will of God?” He asked, holding back any hint of unease.

“Makes sense,” the demon said, yellow eyes gleaming, “After all, I am his most loyal son. All the others gave up, but I never lost faith.”

“So he expects you to free him?” Castiel pressed.

“More like… Get the ball rolling, but in a big way. But once the dominos start falling, and trust me they’re well on their way,  it’ll only be a matter of time before Dad is free and things really get cooking.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning, he takes the fight back to the ones who locked things up and we burn it all! Earth, Heaven if we have to, the whole shebang!” Even in the far reaches of Hell Castiel had heard whispers, rumors of a prophesied cataclysmic event. But it couldn’t be...

“The apocalypse?” He offered warily.

“Bingo, Unc!” Azazel returned with a nod, "I tell ya, I’ve never seen him so confident, so sure that this is it.” Castiel assumed he always ran as cold he could be, but this affirmation shot a fierce shock of ice through him. Lucifer’s confidence in any one thing, much like his undeniable brilliance was nothing to ignore. More often than not, it portended nothing but destruction, and this instance was no different. If what the demon said was correct, the rightful ruler of hell had designs on new heights of catastrophe.

“So,” Azazel said, “You wanna hear all about it or not?”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed, “Everything, in as much detail as you can provide.”

 

* * *

 

Castiel paced the now empty hall, head spinning after everything Azazel had disclosed. Lucifer planned to reignite his battle with Michael, bringing an end to Earth and anyone that stood in his way. Though the demon hadn’t stated as much, Castiel knew that this could only mean more of the war and familial bloodshed he had sought to avoid.

When he allowed himself to think deeply on all of it, the promise of Earth’s decimation was also disquieting. Castiel’s fall had removed the any earlier necessity of bowing to humanity, and the atrocities he had witnessed for centuries had done little to engender feeling of love toward the creatures. But he also harbored none of the hatred that his brother had cultivated and while he had long ago chosen to control and mete out punishment to the wicked, he had no quarrel with those still deemed innocent. He saw no glory or benefit to the mass destruction of life, be it human or angel. What he needed was a plan of his own.

He continued pacing, muttering under his breath and preemptively warning off any would be interruptions with a menacing and directionless glare.

Azazel had said it would begin with an unspecified but special child and that he had already started gathering prospects through a series of several long established debts. If that were the case, perhaps the key to his own efforts would be to put an end to any further collection. A solid course of action, but one that would require tools he had forsaken if he intended to stop Azazel with minimal damage.

He paused in his frenzied steps and began to focus on Earth. Before long he was able to latch on to what he sought, and without any further hesitation he rose from hell for the first time in many, many years. When he finally landed, he found himself on a narrow avenue surrounded by houses, all of them darkened and shuttered for the night. Inside the closest house, a blue multistory structure, lay the instrument he was after.

He moved into the dwelling and onto its upper floors, the pull of his connection to his quarry leading him to a small room at the rear left corner of the home. In the space’s only bed lay the small boy that was to be his vessel.

For a moment, he found himself captivated by the young human and the soul that lay within him. Almost all of his interactions with humanity  had been with the corrupted and the damned, and he had forgotten what a pure and untainted essence could look like, the beauty it could hold. Perhaps he had never known until now.

The child stirred in his sleep, drawing Castiel back to the task at hand. While he had been cast out, he was still an angel and unlike demons he required his vessel’s consent.

“James,” he called, attempting to keep his voice mild. He had no idea how one spoke to a child, but he was certain it was in softer tones that he was accustomed to using.

“Hm?” the boy hummed, eyes still closed.

“James, I need you to wake up,” he persisted, doing his best to sound encouraging.

“Wha-what time’s it?” The child croaked.

“James you have to wake up. I— I need your help.” Groaning, the boy sat up, blinking away what remained of his slumber.

“It’s still dark“ he mumbled, “why do I—“ He froze, eyes widening as they darted about the room and found nothing. Though he had chosen to reveal his voice, Castiel had decided it wiser to keep his true form hidden.

“Hello?” James whispered, his voice wavering, “Is anyone there?”

“I am here, James,” Castiel interrupted, “you cannot see me, but you may trust that I am with you.”

“Am I… Dreaming?” he asked, fear still plain.

“No, you are awake and I need your help.”

“Why can’t I see you? How do you know my name? Who are you?”

“I am Castiel. I know of you because your destiny has bound us to one another. And I have hidden myself from you because the true form of an angel can be… Overwhelming.”

“Cassiel? An angel? Like from the Bible? With wings and everything?”

“ _Castiel._ And yes.” The boy shook his head and hugged his knees to his chest.

“No. That— that’s crazy,” he said, “Whoever you are, you better leave. My parents are in the next room and I—”

“You do not believe?” Castiel asked, shoving down his rising irritation.

“I-In what?” James stammered, “God a-and Heaven and stuff? Sure, but angels don’t just show up… Do they?”

“I can prove to you that no madness has befallen you, and that I am real, but we must hurry.”

“Show me… How?” In answer, Castiel reached out to the boy and took hold of his arm. In an instant, they were standing in the building’s first floor kitchen.

“Whoa!” he cried, “How did we get here?”

“Do you know how to boil water?” Castiel asked. The boy scoffed, his sense of shock briefly overridden by indignation.

“Yeah,” he said, “I’m not a baby. But you didn’t answer my--”

“Show me,” Castiel ordered. After a few moments of confused peering about, the boy shrugged and set himself to the task, shambling around groggily and grumbling quietly.

“Now what?” he whispered once the water was simmering on the stove before him.

“Touch the water,” Castiel said firmly.

“What?” James exclaimed, hushed tones abandoned, “Are you nuts?!”

“No, I told you, I am an angel.”

“That’s not what I-- Look, I’m not gonna melt my hand for you.”

“You will be fine.”

“No way.”

“James--”

“And it’s not James. Nobody calls me that except teachers, or my mom when she’s pis--I mean, mad.” Castiel let out a sigh that rattled the kitchen windows, drawing a surprised yelp from the child that actually left him feeling  guilty. He was here for his help not to frighten him into submission, something easier thought than put into practice given the fact his skill set tended more toward commanding demons than it did speaking to babes.

“Jimmy” he reasoned, hoping to sound gentler than before, “Please. I promise no harm will come to you. I need you to trust me.”

“Why?” he asked, almost plaintively, “Why me?”

“As I said,” he replied, “I need your help. But you cannot provide the assistance I require if you do not trust me. I am trying to show you that I do in fact exist, and am a being of my word.”

“Why would an angel need my help?” Castiel wrestled with how much to reveal, wondering if the truth would be too much or not enough. As was often the case, his options were dreadfully limited.

“There are beings of great evil in this world,” he explained solemnly, not bothering to mention his part in their existence but feeling a twist of self loathing all the same, “Demons who seek to do great harm to humanity. I want to stop them, but I need a human form, a chosen vessel, to walk the Earth. Your body.”

“You need my body… To fight demons?”

“Once we are joined, I will be able to use the full scope of my powers in this realm.”

“Powers? I would have powers?”

“I would be in control but… Yes, your body would be imbued with my abilities. Flight, strength, invulnerability.”

“Like Green Lantern? Or-or even Superman?”

“I’m not familiar with your references, but if either of those individuals are capable of skills I just listed, then I suppose so.”

“And I would fight bad guys--Monsters, and be OK?”

“Demons. And yes, you would emerge unscathed and return to your life as it was. You need but touch the water for proof.” Jimmy took several halting steps toward the stove-top, biting his lip anxiously as he stared down into the pot. Taking a deep breath, he raised a shaking hand toward the liquid and Castiel reached for him once more, spreading a protective energy over the appendage. Cut off from Heaven, his grace had diminished from all that it once was, but Lucifer had greatly helped to preserve and strengthen it with his own unfettered power when Castiel had joined him all those centuries ago. It was an almost humorous irony, that the last remaining thing Castiel was grateful to Lucifer for would be used to move against him.

“Ohcrapohcrapohcrapohcrap,” Jimmy chanted under his breath, before squeezing his lids shut and plunging his arm in the now the roiling water. He drew in a sharp breath between his teeth in anticipation of pain, his muscles tense with fear. When the agony didn’t come he squinted one eye open, and finding himself untouched, widened both in amazement.

“I--I don’t feel anything,” he marveled, experimentally dipping his arm in and out of the basin.

“As promised,” Castiel agreed. Jimmy nodded, shutting the burner off and carefully pulling his hand back for good, bringing it up to his face for closer examination.

“These bad guys,” he said, his voice all at once sober, “They’ll hurt everyone, right? My parents, my friends… Even little kids?”

“Yes, anyone and everyone they wish,” Castiel returned, his own tone grave.

“And after we stop them, I can come back home?” he asked with an edge of residual trepidation.

“Yes. I will return you once we are finished.” I was a promise that the angel meant, and intended to keep, but not far from the surface of things he knew there was a chance that circumstances would make that impossible, should he fail in what he set out to do.

“Alright," Jimmy conceded, "Yeah, let’s do it then. Let’s be Superman.” Castiel paused for a beat, inexplicably surprised and even touched by the small human’s reasoning and resolve, in spite of his obvious apprehension and a wealth of unknowns. But there was little time for this sudden burst of impression.

“I need you to say you agree to be my vessel, Jimmy," he pressed, "Those words.”

“I-- I agree to be your vessel, Castiel.” At this, the fallen angel surged forward, pouring the entirety of himself into the diminutive body that stood before him. In an instant, he was surrounded by a tidal wave of physical sensation.

Sight through the boy’s eyes.

The feel of clothes against his skin, soft and pleasant.

The tiles beneath his toes, cool, smooth.

There were smells too, of Jimmy’s mother’s perfume, the garlic from their meal, somewhere the fur of animal, a feline of some sort. It was all so much at once that it threatened to overwhelm him completely. He had never imagined that humans processed this amount of input each and every day, and that wasn’t even accounting for the thoughts and desires that seemed to so often lead them down a path to their own undoing. It was wonderful and terrible and almost all at once maddening.

He took a breath with Jimmy’s lungs and clenched his small fists tightly to center himself. He was stronger than this and there was work to be done. Pushing aside all distractions, he expanded his angelic awareness, seeking out those Azazel had named as next on his list of debt collection and corruption: Winchester.


	3. Night Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night we all know, with an AU twist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being a little late. That said, enjoy the Gabriel (can you tell he's one of my favorites to write?).  
> *More (spoiler-y) notes at the end*

**NOVEMBER 2ND, 1983**

 

It only took a few moments to find them and he was there in seconds, once again on a darkened street but this time before a smaller dwelling in Lawrence, Kansas.

There were four of them inside, with the youngest nestled at the corner of the upper floors much as Jimmy was, but instead of flitting to its side he decided to examine the home in its entirety. He did not sense any demonic energy at present, but Azazel was not without his tricks and he was not about to be surprised by any of them. He checked the perimeter first, and then moved to the house’s interior, placing himself just beyond its entrance before continuing on foot.

Past the front hallway and in the largest room of the first floor, a man--the father-- slept in an oversized chair, a near empty bottle of alcohol at his feet and his snores all but drowned out by the sounds of the television before him. Castiel gave him a cursory once over, largely in the interest of safety but also in some small part because of yet another lapse into curiosity. This soul was by no means pure, having been altered by the unavoidable tragedies of human existence, a well-developed temper, and a fondness for drink that held potential to evolve into a problem, but it was by no means as blackened as those of the denizens of hell. In truth, there was a distinct kind of beauty to it, particularly in the way the light of it seem to shine through and in spite of the darkness that had touched it. More importantly, and in terms of the task at hand, it was free of any evil influence, and so Castiel moved on.

The mother was more of the same, though the circumstances of her own soul’s weathering were far different from those of her husband, more like battle scars than corrupting influences. Azazel had said that she was the one who had made the deal that set this branch of his scheme in motion, that she had come from a family of hunters whose interference in his plans had led to her becoming part of them. He had heard of humans that fought against the evil that most others were ignorant of, but actively coming into contact with one was far more impactful than the awareness of a rumor. The strength alone emanating from her more than matched up with the notion that she would attempt to square off against a Prince of Hell, and he could not help but wonder what Azazel had done to break the woman enough to broker a contract.

He peered in on the eldest child next, a boy several years younger than his vessel and even more deeply asleep. He had only intended to check for signs of demonic presence, but one glance at this Winchester’s soul had him frozen in place for a closer look. As expected it glowed with unsullied virtue, perhaps even more than Jimmy’s, but it was also marked, stamped with an unmistakable claim of ownership. This was Michael’s true vessel.  

Frenzied and confused thoughts began forming and racing through Castiel’s mind. It didn’t any make sense. The mother’s deal had been one of circumstance, but Lucifer would never have allowed such a bargain to carry through if he knew it could prematurely alert Heaven, and interference with an archangel’s vessel could certainly incite just that. Which meant that his brother somehow knew Michael would have no qualms with a Prince of Hell operating in close proximity to his property. Did his plan include a means to circumvent their brother’s omniscience? Or perhaps… Perhaps he didn’t have to. Lucifer and Michael each possessed a knowledge far beyond that of most beings, himself included. Security of Hell’s prison aside, Michael was certainly not fool enough to assume his brother had been so subdued by the cage as to be harmless, and Lucifer himself would of course not underestimate such vigilance. They were each, more than likely, aware enough of the other to be wary, particularly given the prophecy centered upon them. Could it be that… That Michael knew all of it? That he was fully aware and willing to fulfill the grim destiny that would throw their family and God’s creations into fiery chaos, all in the name of their age old feud?

A gasp, his gasp, escaped Jimmy’s parted lips, and before he could collect himself the sleeping boy’s eyes snapped open and landed upon him. They stared at each other in shocked silence for a handful of seconds, before the boy grabbed what appeared to be a tiny wooden sword from beside his bed and sat up.

“Who are you?” he asked, pointing the faux blade at him and sounding more accusatory than afraid, “What’re you doin’ in my room?” Were it not for the enormity of the situation at hand, and maybe even somewhat in spite of it, Castiel would have almost found humor in the notion of this child facing down a being such as himself with a blunted toy. He started forward, intending to put the boy back to sleep, but stopped short of carrying through with the action. It occurred to him that while Michael and Lucifer may have an understanding of some kind, he was in no way part of it, and that laying hands upon a chosen vessel could add another facet to an already precarious situation.

“How’d you get here?” the boy continued, emboldened by the appearance of having stayed Castiel’s approach.

“I flew,” Castiel returned, his affectation flat, “You need to return to bed.”

“Like,” he said, lowering the sword a few inches as his face twisted in contemplation “Like Peter Pan and the lost boys?”

“No, my name isn’t Peter and I’m an angel not a--” The boy cut him off with a sharp intake of breath.

“An angel?” he repeated,  “Like mommy says watches us? But you don’t got wings or--”

“Listen,” Castiel interrupted, tone once again creeping toward irritation, “None of that matters. Right now, it is imperative that you go back to sleep. Do you understand child?

“Dean,” he offered, “I’m Dean.”

“Fine. Dean. You--”

“What’s your name?” Castiel was in the midst of reconsidering his initial hesitancy in sedating the elder Winchester, when all at once the smell of ash assaulted Jimmy’s tiny nostrils, and the presence of a familiar darkness edged at his awareness. He quickly scanned the room, the vessel’s narrow shoulders tensing.

“What?” Dean asked, trying to follow his gaze, “What’d you--”

“Quiet,” Castiel insisted in a rough whisper, glaring at him. Dean nodded slowly, his earlier wonderment falling away beneath the fear he’d failed to display upon waking. Castiel cocked his head to one side and concentrated, allowing his finer senses to assess this latest arrival. There was no mistaking it. Azazel was here.

A soft creak and an infantile cry drifted through the the wall beside him and Dean was up like a shot, moving toward the door.

“Stop,” Castiel demanded, catching him by his arm, “Where are you going?”

“Sammy’s cryin’,” he replied, as if that was a sufficient explanation.

“You can’t,” Castiel argued, “It’s dangerous. There are…” He fumbled for the phrase Jimmy had used earlier.

“Somethin’ bad?” Dean volunteered, licking his lips nervously.

“Yes. Bad guys,” he arrived upon, “It is not safe.”

“If there’s bad guys, we gotta get Mommy an’ Daddy,” he concluded, attempting to tug them both closer to the exit. Castiel shook his head, effortlessly holding them in place. The last thing he needed was the boy running through the halls, rousing not only his parents but the demon mere feet away. That said, having the family more closely gathered did not altogether sound like a poor idea.

Before Dean could protest any further, they were standing at the foot of his mother’s bed, and he traded his struggles for stunned silence. Castiel let go of his arm, and laid his now free hand over the boy’s mouth, effectively recapturing his attentions.

“Keep quiet and stay with your mother,” he whispered, “Do not come out of this room until I say, understand?” Dean nodded and Castiel relinquished his hold on him completely.

“You’re gonna fight em?” Dean questioned in hushed tones, “By yourself?”

“Yes,” he replied.  He took a step away from the bed, only to have Dean’s diminutive hand wrap around his own wrist.

“Wait,” he hissed, “You never said your name.” Castiel sighed and turned back to him, his face stern.

“I am called Castiel,” he grumbled, easily extricating himself from the boy’s grip, “Now go to your mother.”

“OK,” Dean said with another nod, “Be careful Cas.” Castiel squinted at him bemusedly, struck by the strangeness of a being barely beyond its creation fearing for the safety of something that had existed for eons and done the things that he had done. The sound of the baby’s squeal crackled over a device on a nearby bedside table, refocusing his attention and causing the female Winchester to stir ever so slightly. There wasn’t time for any further distraction. With a deep and unnecessary breath, he moved himself into the only part of the house he had yet to explore.

It was a smaller room than all the others, with light-colored walls and curtains, but he neglected any close examination of the space in favor of staring down the barred cot at its corner, and the figure looming over the infant it contained.

“Step away from him,” Castiel growled.

“Oh Unc,” Azazel chuckled, “I thought you might show up.” He slowly spun around to face him, shoulders shaking with another burst of laughter when his yellow eyes fell upon him.

“Well, well,” he jeered, “Look at you. It’s a little young for my tastes, but not bad. Not bad at all.”

“I said, step away,” he intoned roughly. Azazel shrugged and took a few languid strides toward the center of the room.

“I mean,” he said, “I’m about finished anyway.” Castiel’s eyes darted between the demon and the child. Azazel had told him that he had been tasked with collecting and cultivating the abilities of special children, ones with strong bloodlines who would be capable of taking the first steps toward Lucifer’s release, but he had never explained the method of cultivation.

“What have you done to him?” Castiel spat.

“Oh, right!” Azazel cried, tapping his chin, “I left that part out, didn’t I? I suppose it can’t hurt to say at this point. Nothing to it but a little juicing up with a few drops of one of dad’s finest vintage.” He held up a bloody finger before popping it into his mouth with a lascivious grin.

“This plan if yours,” Castiel rumbled menacingly, “It will not stand.” Outside, a not too distant thunder rumbled, startling the baby into a fit of tears.

“Oh Uncle Cas,” Azazel pouted, “You’re breaking my heart. Or whatever’s thumping around in there. You know, Dad had hoped you’d be a good boy and fall in line, but he had his suspicions that wasn’t in the cards. Said you always were shit at true obedience and picking sides. But hey, no real harm done. The second you set foot topside, I got the go ahead to make a few changes to management. You’re looking at the new top dog.”

“You believe titles are of any concern to me?” Castiel challenged, “Ranks aside, our powers are far from matched. I was present for your making and I will gladly be the architect of your destruction.” He flexed as a second, a closer round of thunder crashed overhead, followed by a flash of lightning that briefly put the shadow of his massive wings on full display. Azazel hissed in a low breath, his lips curling back in disgust, but then something beside Castiel seemed to catch the demon’s attention and his smile returned in full force.

“Oh my,” he crowed, “Looks like we got company, Unc.” Castiel’s gaze shot to his left, only to land upon room’s entryway, now open and framing a familiar and horror-stricken woman.

“Why hello there, Mary,” Azazel cooed, “Been a while, huh?”

“You,” she gasped, clenching her teeth, “Get away from my baby!”

“Been there, done that, liked the original better,” the demon mocked, “What do you say we switch things up?” He flicked a hand toward her and she let out a sharp cry as she was hurled upward and held fast onto the ceiling.

“That’s better,” he beamed, twisting and craning his neck toward her, “ Cozier, don’t you th--”

“Mary?” an uncertain voice called toward them.

“Ooh,” Azazel gushed, “Daddy’s joining in too? The more the merrier, I always say.”

“Put her down,” Castiel ordered, taking a step forward.

“Not so fast,” the demon countered, pointing at the woman splayed above them, “One little swipe and it's raining mommy, all over the floor.”

“You have that little awareness of my abilities?” Castiel queried threateningly, “You believe yourself fast enough to harm her before I close the gap between us and put an end to you?”

“Dunno, but are you willing to place that bet? I mean, after all, didn’t you come here to stop me from making a mess?”

“Oh my god,” a new, male voice gasped. Castiel rolled his eyes toward the doorway yet again, this time finding the family’s patriarch frozen just inside the room, Dean peaking out from behind his legs.

“Wrong direction, Johnny-boy,” Azazel simpered, wriggling his eyebrows as he cocked back his raised finger, “But I’ll forgive you. Right after I add a little splash of color to your wife’s ensemble.”.

“No,” Castiel bellowed, thrusting his own arm out toward the demon with imperceptible speed and sending him flying against the far wall. Mary crashed to the ground in a heap at the center of the room, groaning and rolling to her side after only a few short moments of stillness.

“Mommy!” Dean cried, pushing past his stunned father and rushing to her side.

“Dean, no,” his parents cried in unison, his father stomping into the room after him.

“All of you need to get out of this house,” Castiel barked, gesturing downward to slam the fallen demon’s head into the hardwood floor. Eyes still fixed on his struggling foe, Castiel moved to the wailing infant, forced the bars that enclosed him downward, and pulled baby into his free arm.

“Dean,” he called, “Take your brother and run. Mary, John, if you value your lives you will do the same.”

“Who—” Mary began, wobbling to her feet.

“Now!” Castiel shouted. Dean rushed forward and accepted his fussing sibling, only to be snatched to backward and quickly ushered out of the room by Mary and her ashen-faced husband. Castiel stole a glance in their direction, and as he raised his now empty hand to close them out, Dean turned back for a last, ill-advised look, treating the angel to a better glimpse of the being clutched in his arms. The door slammed shut, but Castiel’s vision lingered, still fixed upon the latest impossibility he had uncovered.

“Heh,” Azazel coughed, “See anything you like?”

“Do you have any idea,” Castiel returned, slamming Azazel about to emphasize each word, “What you are playing with?”

“Y-you bet,” he snarled when he was finally allowed to land in a corner of the room, “Like I said, special kids.”

“Whatever this scheme amounts to,” Castiel said, drawing closer, “Your part in it is finished. _You_ are finished.”

“I, uh, don’t think so, Unc. I got a lot left on Dad’s to do list. But, you on the other hand, I think your shelf life’s coming up due. See, you are mighty strong, maybe the strongest. But the thing about being the most feared and hated in Hell means that no one’ll take much convincing to help me jab a big ol knife in your back… Or front. Or anywhere I tell them to put it really. You’re a man without a country now, my friend, and the tough is about to get a hell of a lot tougher. See ya around.” Azazel winked and disappeared in a sudden flash of fire that seemed to spread through the room with impossible quickness. Castiel swore under his breath and blinked back out into the hallway. As the flames all too rapidly began to branch out toward him, he expanded his awareness, searching for sign of the Winchesters.

He found them soon enough, outside and huddled together. Cloaking himself, he exited the burning dwelling and joined them on the lawn. For a time, he watched as men with large flashing vehicles tried in vain to save the burning house, and when he sensed no demonic energy after nearly an hour he turned away to leave.

“ _Cas,”_ he heard in his mind. “ _I’m really scared.”_ Dean Winchester was praying to him, and for the third time he was struck still with surprise and something else he couldn’t quite settle on. He remained before the ruined home a few moments longer, and when the family piled into a vehicle of their own, he followed them to motel, where he swept the surrounding area for any further threats before taking his leave once and for all.

 

* * *

 

 

Jimmy’s home was still dark and it’s inhabitants dormant when he returned to the quiet street where his night on Earth had begun. He started toward the house but froze when a familiar growl reverberated down the avenue. He turned toward the source of the sound, finding a man and a woman several feet down the road, a massive, shadowy black beast between them. Upon closer inspection, Castiel realized the female was the demon from the debriefing earlier that day, the one who had glared daggers at him.

“Well hey there, your highness,” the woman called, “Or, wait, are we all done with that now that daddy’s in charge?”

“So you’ve come to what?” Castiel asked, nostrils flaring, “Finish me off?”

“Try anyway, right Tom?” she said, glancing at the man beside her.

“Exactly, Meg,” the man agreed.

“I warn you,” Castiel chided, “Your father didn’t put up much of a fight, so you’ll have all my strength to contend with, not that you would be any less trifling if he had. ”

“I like our chances just fine,” Meg returned, gesturing behind him with her chin. Castiel glanced over his shoulder and found a similar sight in the opposite direction: two more demons and another Hellhound. Jaw setting, he shifted into a crouch and prepared for the first wave of attack.

“Oh boy,” Meg purred, “looks like things are about to get—” She cut her own words short, eyes narrowing at at something behind him. Castiel thought it a diversionary tactic until he heard the dual cries of the demons behind him, and saw the glow of a bright light in his periphery. He spun around just in time to see a figure stab down into the first Hellhound’s skull, killing the beast in one blow.

“What the fuck?” Meg exclaimed, “Who is that?

“I don’t know,” Tom muttered, “But it feels like—” Castiel took the opportunity created by their distraction to rush forward and grip the demon as tightly by the throat as Jimmy’s small hands could manage. The being that called itself Tom attempted to struggle, but before he could make any real attempt to free himself he was burning from the inside out. His mouth opened in a silent scream and then he was no more. Castiel dropped the smoldering corpse and whirled toward Meg, who was already making a slow, backward retreat.

“It’s alright,” she said firmly, visibly fighting off a shudder, “Dad wanted us to make a point more than anything else. You’ve got nowhere to go, Castiel. Not heaven, and definitely not Hell anymore. We get one whiff of you near what we have cooking and not even your new buddy won’t be able to save you.”

“Does it appear as though I need saving, abomination?” he shot back, edging closer.

“Just you wait angel,” she returned, “Your time’s coming.” She flashed a final bitter smirk and then threw her head back, black smoke billowing from the mouth of the woman she had occupied. Castiel grimaced in frustration as the body collapsed onto the pavement and turned his attention to the remaining hellhound, only to find the newcomer— a short male with dark hair— standing over its lifeless form. Now that he had an unobstructed view, the fallen angel was able to immediately recognize the grace emanating from the stranger that had assisted him. He straightened instinctively as man’s gaze rose to meet his own.

“Well that was a little sad,” he said, hands on his hips, “I mean that whole ‘we were just sending a message’ bit? Come on.” Castiel remained silent, swallowing and staring up at him in lieu of an answer. He shrugged and turned back to the bodies lying in the street, disposing of them with a single snap of his fingers.

“So,” the archangel beamed, spinning around to face him, “How’s goes it, Cassie? Actually, never mind, you don’t have to tell me. I’m pretty caught up and man do you have a way of stepping in it.”

“Gabriel,” Castiel finally managed, tone grave with reverence, “What are you doing here? Have you come to… To smite me, once and for all?”

“What?” Gabriel asked incredulously, “Smite — No. No way man. And I mean really, you think they’d send guns as big as me after, no offense, small potatoes like you? Yeah, you’re a prince of Hell, but trust me when I say I could still take you and then some. Anyway, me and Heaven haven’t really been on the same page for a while now, long before you got your walking papers.”

Castiel frowned, recalling what Michael had said on the fateful day, just before he had cast him out.

“You deserted the battlefield as well,” he marveled.

“More like never set foot on it,” Gabriel corrected, “As soon as Michael and Lucifer really started to get into it, I hightailed it out of there faster than you could say rebellion. It… may or may not have had something to do with why he was so pissed at you when you took a walk. Although, he’s usually pretty grumpy, so who’s to say really?”

“Then… if you aren’t here to kill me, why are you here?”

“Lucie and Mike aren’t the only ones with all-seeing eyes.  I’ve seen what you’ve been up to, little bro. The fall, how you let Lucie get his hooks in you, the centuries of unhealthy coping and eventual bitter settling… All pretty sad, disappointing stuff. Boring really. But then, tonight happened. After everything, even in the face of certain prophecy, you stuck to your guns, and the one thing you got right: the whole killing each other thing’s gotta stop. That got me standing up.”

“But why? Why after all this time and if you’re so sure that the prophecy is inevitable?”

“Don’t get me wrong. As far as the Apocalypse goes? The chances that ball stops rolling are slim as they get, and I’ve been prepared to accept that, once again, Lucifer and Michael are gonna ruin it for everyone. But… Maybe seeing you try to stop things going all the way bad after everything you’ve gone through gave me a kick in the ass. Or maybe, after all this time I’ve come to the conclusion that those two douches shouldn’t get to keep having their way and slap fighting at everyone else’s expense. And anyway, I like Earth. Not to mention, the small steps you took tonight to save that family? There were ripples Cassie, ones that just might make a difference.” Castiel shook his head.

“I failed tonight, Gabriel,” he argued, “The boy, Samuel Winchester, he was tainted with demon’s blood, and he’s--”

“Lucifer’s true vessel, I know,” Gabriel said, clapping a hand on his shoulder and leveling his eyes at him, “Which means he’s always been lined up for trouble. But tonight could’ve gone a lot worse, and now they’ve got someone in their corner the next time things get hinky. And, the bonus? they’re a direct window into whatever Hell’s got brewing. No way they’re gonna leave little Sammy out of that party.”

“Yes,” Castiel murmured, “Now that you are involved--”

“Me? Oh no, bucko. I’m happy to assist and all, but I got a lot of livin’ to do and that doesn’t include babysitting. You’re gonna watch ‘em..”

“Gabriel, as much as I hate to agree with that creature, the demon was correct. Neither Heaven nor Hell will have me and Azazel wishes me dead. Even my vessel is in danger of being destroyed. If I choose to remain anywhere, even in intervals, it will be here, in order to ensure this body isn’t damaged should I require it in the future.”

“Good to know you’re attached to the kid I guess, but nope. Uh, uh, bad idea. As long as you’re around, he’s a target.”

“So what do you expect me to do? Leave him, on the hope that the demons will be rational?”

“Killing little boy blue eyes here wouldn’t get them what they want, namely, your demise. Sure, it would be inconvenient, but I’m betting that your, shall we say, less than affectionate demeanor has them convinced that you wouldn’t hesitate to jump someone’s less than stable bones for temporaries if they backed you into a corner.”

“So I leave him surrounded by enemies just waiting to strike the moment I return to him? And what about the Winchesters? What good can I be to them, especially now? You would leave me as guardian with a target on my back?”

“Or we put on our big boy pants and make you both a little harder to find. Here, gimme your hand, drama queen.” Gabriel snatched up the Jimmy’s hand and placed it on the vessel’s chest before covering it over with his own.

“Now, concentrate,” Gabriel instructed, “Warding sigils, you remember those, right?” Castiel nodded and closed his eyes, pressing his grace outward and forcing his intentions upon the bones that surrounded it. He felt a flash of pain as the enochian symbols etched into the child’s ribs, and then a second sharper discomfort when Gabriel added his own touches.

“There,” he said, pulling back his hand and crossing his arms, “Not quite a hex bag, but it should do nicely. Man, am I good or am I awesome?”

“This is all well and good,” Castiel replied, taking an experimental breath and feeling no lasting soreness, “But they already know where he lives. Warding is useless if they have his location.”

“Eh, I’ll figure something out. Give his pop’s a brand new job, something that would force a little move, maybe something upstate. The kid’ll be angry about leaving his friends and yadda, yadda, yadda, but I bet he’d be even more upset if he woke up to a house fire with him and his folks in it. And don't worry, I'll be sure to give you the forwarding address.”

“I suppose that makes sense. Hopefully this will all be enough to prevent them from tracking him going forward.”

“And now we come to the other side of things. See, I don’t think they tracked him here. Pretty sure it’s you they have tagged.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I think we should do this part inside, could get a little messy.” Gabriel snapped his fingers and in instant they were in Jimmy’s room.  
“Have a seat, Cassie,” he said, gesturing to the empty bed. Castiel gave him a wary frown but nevertheless did as he was told. Gabriel knelt down in front of him, balancing on the balls of his feet and searching the deep blue eyes that his brother had co-opted.

“Just like I thought,” he said, still peering up at him, “When Lucie patched you up after the fall, he left a little of himself behind. It’s what helped you power up when you two got buddy buddy, and it’s how they found you after you and that yellow-eyed asshole threw down.”

“Lucifer left a piece of his grace,” Castiel reasoned, “In me?”

“What can I say?” he added with a wry smile, “You get in bed with the wrong people and you’re bound to catch something. But have no fear, Dr. Gabriel is here.”

“You can remove it?”

“Yeah, but it’s gonna suck. You trust me?”

“What choice do I have?”

“Good enough! Now hold still.” Gabriel turned his left palm over, revealing a pair of long vials which he uncorked and held at the ready. He then shook out one of his sleeved arms and took hold of the long silver blade that slid into his waiting grasp.

“Is that--” Castiel began.

“Shhh,” he interrupted pointing a finger at him that suddenly had Castiel silenced by a heavy metal plate over his mouth, “Need to focus.” At this, he slashed the blade over the vessel’s delicate neck, sending grace pouring out of the wound and into one of the vials Gabriel held beneath it. Castiel convulsed, hands clenching at Jimmy’s rumpled sheets and letting out muffled but insistent cries of agony.

“I know, I know,” Gabriel cooed setting down his blade and narrowing his eyes, “Just a little bit longer aaand… Here we go!” He shifted the bottles with incredible swiftness, corking the first, now filled with iridescent blue light, as he use the other to capture a second stream of energy.

“Gotcha!” Gabriel exclaimed, as the last dregs of angelic power sloughed out of the laceration, leaving Castiel  feeling a terrible, aching emptiness. Bereft of all strength, he slumped sideways against the bed’s headboard, nearly falling away from the hands that his brother pressed to his throat and mouth to heal and un-gag him.

“See?” the archangel said, holding the vials up to him, “It ain’t much, but a little bit goes a long way with this stuff.” Even with his vision blurring, Castiel could see the differences in the contents of the bottles. The first all but overflowed with the soft blue glow that was his grace, while the other was not even half full with a white hot energy whose light seemed to almost burn out from its container.

“Back in a tick,” Gabriel said with a wink, “Gotta get this little piece a Hell somewhere far away.” He disappeared from sight and Castiel closed his eyes, taking a slow, shallow breath. He was raw and exhausted, so much more so than when he had fallen. He had never imagined ripping his grace from his body, but it still managed to be worse than he could ever have conjured in his wildest contemplations.

“Normally it’s not that bad,” Gabriel said, once more at his side, “Or so I’ve heard. But our big brother’s cast offs were helping to hold you together and preserve things after you fell. So, basically, everything’s back to it where it was before he fixed you up.”

“I can see that, yes,” Castiel rasped.

“You’ll feel better when I give you back what’s yours,” he continued, shaking the remaining container “And I’ll even heal up your wings for you, but a word of warning: with you being cut off from Heaven, the good times won’t last. Eventually, your grace is gonna fade away for good. Normally that takes a long time, sometimes whole millennia, and that shot of the bad stuff that Lucifer gave you did a good enough job at slowing things down. But, after all this time, going cold turkey might speed things up. My advice? Use what you’ve got wisely, don’t be an idiot unless the situation really calls for it. Now come on pumpkin, let’s set you straight.” Castiel nodded weakly and Gabriel took hold of him, cradling his head with unexpected gentleness as he tipped the vial toward his parted lips. The grace flowed back into him, shocking his temporarily dulled senses. At the same time, he could feel the familiar sensation of his broken wings mending beneath his brother’s restorative touch, and before long he felt strong enough to hold himself up.

“How are we feeling?” Gabriel asked blithely.

“Weaker than before,” he replied, staring down at his vessel’s hands, “But I am whole again.”

“Sounds good to me,” his brother chirped, “Now come on. Put the kid back to bed and let’s head over to your new pet project.” He slapped his hands against his knees and and stood, but Castiel remained rooted to his seat on the mattress.

“Uh, Cas?” Gabriel attempted, “Time is a little of the essence here, ya dig?”

“Guarding the Winchesters,” Castiel mumbled, “Do you truly believe that I am fit for such a duty, given who I have been, and what--”

“You’re overthinking this, big time,” Gabriel countered, “Take tonight for instance. Nobody died! I think we can put that down as a significant mark in the ‘you can do it’ column.”

“I’m a Prince of Hell.”

“Correction: you were a Prince of Hell. It’s way past time for a career change and I’d count tonight as an excellent job interview. You showed some real initiative without anyone asking you to, and this time for something that won’t lead to fire and brimstone… We hope anyway…”

“Still, perhaps you would be a better choice.”

“In just about every scenario, sure. But don’t compare yourself to perfection. You’ll be aces at this Cas, and I think they’ll be just as good for you as you are for them.”

“In what regard?”

“Aw, come on, baby bro! Don’t tell me it didn’t feel better hanging around mortals that weren’t complete scumbags. These monkeys can be kind of endearing once you take a close enough look, give you all kinds of warm fuzzies you never even imagined.”

“I didn’t feel any temperature changes or textures but--”  
“Yeesh, I forgot what a stick in the mud you could be. Just… Trust me, ok? You’ve got this. And, if things do get heavier than you think you can manage, give me a whistle. You know how to whistle, dontcha?”

“A simple prayer won’t suffice?”

“Oy! I hope to Dad  you’ll get a little media education while you’re playing watchdog, because man are you stiff. Now, seriously, say goodnight to little Jimmy, and meet me outside.” With this, Gabriel blinked away, leaving Castiel in renewed silence. After a final glance about the room, and an almost absent-minded scrub of Jimmy’s toes against the room’s soft carpeting, he laid down on the bed and eased himself from the body he had borrowed. As he took a few moments to reorient himself to his untethered form, Jimmy rolled to his side and sleepily blinked up at the darkness of his surroundings.

“Castiel,” he whispered, voice heavy with uncertainty.

“Yes Jam--Jimmy?” he answered.

“Did…” he he yawned, “Did we fight the bad guys?

“... Yes. Thank you for your assistance this evening.”

“Wow… That-- That’s so cool. Did we… Did we beat ‘em?” He yawned again and snuggled into his blanket, his consciousness fading by the second.

“Yes,” Castiel said. In lieu of a response, Jimmy gave a peaceful smile and finally drifted into heavy slumber.

“ _Yes_ ,” Castiel thought to himself, as he moved away from the sleeping child “ _... For now_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know some people were looking for a little more time spent with "dark" Castiel, but don't worry. Removing that little piece of Lucifer does not erase the effects of his being cast down or the centuries spent as a Prince of Hell ;)


	4. Ten Years Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchester's face the fallout of Azazel's visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This one really fought me, but at least I managed to get it up mostly on time. I hope y'all enjoy it.  
> 

**NOVEMBER 2ND/3RD, 1983**

 

John had been dreadfully quiet since they had staggered out of their home and onto the lawn, only to turn back and find thick black smoke curling from the corner of the house they had all too recently occupied. He had remained mute when the fire trucks arrived, called by some neighbor or another, and through their drive to the motel, leaving Mary to handle stilted conversations with firemen and the finer details of where they would stay for the night. When they had entered their rented room, paid for with a credit card John had slapped onto the front desk a little too roughly, Mary was forced to bed down the children on her own while her husband sat at a narrow table in the corner, hands clasped under his chin and a far away look in his eyes.

“It just doesn’t make any sense,”John mumbled finally, snapping Mary’s attention from her eldest son, who lay curled against her in hard won sleep on one of two identical twin mattresses. She continued to stare at him warily, but he fell silent once more with a slow shake of his head, allowing the small room to fill with the sounds of baby Sam’s more fitful sleep in a roll away crib at the foot of the beds.. She knew she should say something, try to guide him through a shock that she had seen one time too many, but a part of her was also positive that any of the number of emotions that he was wavering between would by no means be improved with words. More than that, talking would mean blowing everything open even wider, and admitting that there was truly was no going back. In spite of the inevitability of it all, she wasn’t ready.

She had been out, far removed from the life for nearly ten years, minus one final blip of a werewolf hunt. Ten years not of perfection, but of more normalcy than she had ever thought possible, and all it had taken was a single moment to send everything she had built hurtling toward a long forgotten edge of her own making. She thought she had shut every door imaginable on that life, but there had been one left open all along.

“It’s-- I,” John resumed abruptly, dropping his hands to the table, “I can’t wrap my head around it. I mean, one minute, I’m snoring in front of the tv, and the next there’s screaming and I find you just, just stuck up there … Not to mention, that kid and that man with those, those yellow eyes, and all that fire…” He coughed out a short, humorless laugh, scrubbing a hand over his face. Mary pulled the flannel she had found in the impala tighter around her shoulders, glancing between her children.

“How are you not freaking out about all this?” John asked, “How are you so calm?”

“Shock I think” she returned evenly. It wasn’t entirely untrue. Another, much smaller part of her hesitancy to speak came from the fact that she was confused. Not so much as her husband, of course, but confused nonetheless. She had recognized the demon that had attacked her, but not the thing that was by all appearances a child, but to her sharper instincts something altogether other and dangerous. The thing that, for some reason or another, had beaten back a beast and saved them.  

“Yeah that tracks,” he agreed, turning to face her, “I mean-- Shit, Mary, you’re head.”

“Hmm?” she hummed, raising her eyes back to him, finding his face awash with concern.

“You got what’s shaping up to be a pretty nasty knot,” he explained gesturing toward her face, “Probably from… From when you fell.” She reached up and gingerly smoothed her fingers across her forehead, finding a tender but unbroken patch of skin just shy of her hairline.

“Doesn’t hurt much,” she concluded, “And it isn’t bleeding. Probably looks worse than it is.”

“Maybe,” he replied, “But, still. I could get you some ice or--”

  
“No,” she objected, “We need to stay together.” He frowned, fixing her with a searching look before heaving ragged sigh.

“Yeah,” he relented, “Yeah, you’re right. I guess I just want to be of some goddamned use, after everything… Hell, Mary! You were--”

“John,” she interrupted, her tone firm but not so loud as to rouse their children, “It’s late. We’ll have a lot to take stock of come sunrise. If there’s any way that you can relax or even get some rest, you need to do it. For the boys at least..”

“That’s just it,” he explained piteously, “All I can think about is the boys… And you, and what could have happened...”

“But nothing did happen to us, not really. So for right now we need to--” Something heavy thudded against the door and before she could think Mary was sliding away from her son with a liquid speed she didn’t know she still possessed. When a rapid check of the shirt’s pockets failed to provide a satisfactory weapon, she took hold of the a lamp on the night table beside the borrowed crib, ripping the cord from the wall and wielding the appliance like a club.

“Mary?” John croaked, starting to his feet as she crept toward the window beside the room’s only exit, “What are--”

“Shhh,” she hushed, “Get ready to grab the boys. And if I say run, you get the hell out of here as fast as you can.” John made no further movements in any direction, choosing instead to stare after her in bewilderment, but his lack of compliance fell into her periphery as she sidled up to the curtained pane of glass. All of her old instincts were sliding into place, preparing her for whatever unknown lay in wait, running through dozens of possible attacks and counters, and condemning her for failing to set up basic protections around their temporary shelter. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she hefted the lamp in her left hand, and slowly pulled back a corner of the blinds with her right.

Outside, a pair of teenagers were stumbling away from their door, clearly drunk and oblivious to anything but one another’s bodies. Mary fell back against the wall, sliding down to the carpeted floor and resting the lamp between her feet. John rushed to the window, yanking back the curtain to have a look for himself.

“Jesus Christ,” he panted, swiping a hand over his mouth as he pulled the drapery back into place, “What the hell was that?”

“Just some kids,” she muttered, “They bumped into the door, scared me.”

  
“Since when is that you scared?” he asked, leaning into the corner beside her, “The way you moved just now, how you grabbed that lamp and barked orders at me? That looked like training, not a knee jerk reaction. I’ve seen marines less prepared than that.”

“Trust me, the last thing I am is prepared. If I was, he wouldn’t have gotten into Sam’s room or thrown me like he did.”

“... He? Not they? Because there were two of them. And what that thing did to you? I’d say that was a little more than throwing.” Mary could hear the beginnings of recognition darkening his words and she squeezed her eyes shut, cursing herself for the missteps that now had a tidal wave looming over her.

“Look at me Mary,” he pressed, closer now and a faint sternness creeping into his tone, “Do you know something about what happened? All that mess back there?” When she didn’t respond, she felt him take hold of her shoulders and she reluctantly opened her eyes, meeting the question in his stare with a desperate gaze of her own.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” she said, the weight of her emotions pitching her tone downward.

“What do you mean?” he challenged.

“And even if I could just come out and say...” she continued, “You’d never believe me, not in a million years.”

“Try me. Because, considering everything I’ve seen tonight, anything close to resembling an explanation would be better than nothing.” He let go of her and took a seat on the carpet, leaning back against the bed closest to the door. Mary bit her bottom lip, unsure if she was holding back the answers he was begging of her or just a scream. John tilted his head, urging her to speak with an unrelenting glare.

“Alright,” she conceded, suddenly feeling every bit as exhausted as their situation would suggest, “But … What I have to say isn’t going to make anything better.”

“All the same, I wanna hear it,” John said, crossing his arms. Mary nodded her head slowly, brows knitting together.

“What you saw in Sam’s nursery,” she began, “That scared you, right?”

“Yeah,” he affirmed gruffly, “Maybe more than I’ve ever been.”

“Good,” she replied, “Scared is smart. Because… Monsters are real, John, and you just met at least one of them tonight.”

And then she told him. And told him and told him, giving him the all too familiar talk and offering everything she knew and was capable of explaining. It lasted through to the sunrise, and while none of it was remotely easy, the broad strokes of the beginning went over best. It wasn’t difficult to convince her husband of the existence of otherworldly threats after what he had witnessed in their own home, and at first, it had almost been endearing to listen to him rattle off questions about which mythical beasts actually existed.

It was the finer details, the dirty hows and whys of the evening that truly set his anger into a froth. At that point, he transitioned into a potent but impressively muted outrage, the likes of which she had never seen. They had had their share of blowouts, one even leading to a decision to briefly live apart, but they all paled in comparison to this, not that she was at all surprised. After about his third time demanding an explanation that she didn’t have for their not-child child savior, he reclaimed his seat at the room’s only table and their conversation lapsed into a baleful, contemplative silence.

“I can’t believe,” he seethed at last, “the sheer amount of lies you told.”

“I didn’t lie,” she countered, futilely.

“Are we really getting into semantics here, Mary?” he snapped, “By omission, yes. You lied to me, the entire time.”

“I wanted out, John! I hated hunting and I was done the day you and I decided to spend the rest of our lives together, before that even. What would have been the point in exposing you to all of it if we were starting a new life together?”

“I don’t know, maybe a heads up that, in addition to all the other shit out in the world, there’s actual monsters that could eat us and our kids?”

“I never thought—”

“And ya know, I could almost, almost, get behind the whole keepin’ me in the dark, cuttin’ ties to start fresh thing, except ya didn’t cut all of ‘em now didja?” Most times she found the drawl he would sometimes unconsciously slip into endearing, but now it was simply a measure of how angry he was, and each newly dropped consonant stung more and more.

“You left us wide open for tonight,” he continued, “With that damned deal you made.”

“I was half out of my mind when I made that deal!” she cried, “I was trying to help a friend and that thing killed my parents… And you. I lost everyone I cared about that night and I couldn’t stand to leave it that way. I didn’t know what I was agreeing to, and I’ll never stop being sorry for it. But what would you have done if you were me? Honestly?”

“Mommy?” she heard Dean mumble. Her eyes darted to the bed at the far end of the room where her eldest child sat, rubbing the sleep from his face.

“Hey baby,” she said, sniffing and blinking back tears, “Did we wake you up?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, a tad sullen, “But also I’m hungry. Why’re you on the floor?”

“Oh. No reason baby,” she reassured, “Everything’s fine.” Ignoring the pins and needles spreading through her stiff leg muscles, she came to her feet and walked over to him, re-seating herself on the mattress beside him.

“You sleep alright?” she asked, peering down at him. Dean gave a shrug and resumed rubbing his eyes. It wasn’t exactly a comforting answer, or much of an answer at all, but it was better than she had expected after the night they’d had.

“Hey kiddo,” John interjected, rising from the table, “Hows about I go see if I can’t scrounge us up some grub?” The boy nodded, perking up at the mention of food.

“Alright,” he said, offering a lopsided grin, “Be back in a bit. Behave for your mom, ok?”

“John,” Mary called after him as he turned toward the door, “Don’t you think you’d better wait? Until we have a plan I mean?”

“You heard him,” he replied, gripping the door handle defiantly, “Boy’s hungry.”

“I’m just,” she continued, searching in vain for the right words, “I’m just trying to think about safety.”

“Little late for that, isn’t it?” At this, he jerked open the door, and exited without a single glance backward. She frowned after him, partway fuming over his bull-headedness but mostly stricken with fear for what his thoughtless actions could get him into.

“Don’t worry mommy,” Dean said, wrapping his tiny arms as much around her as he could, “Angels are watchin’ us.” Hearing the words she often used to bid her children goodnight, echoed back at her in her son’s earnest attempt at comfort, succeeded where her argument with John had failed. She grabbed the boy and held him close, hoping to keep him from seeing the tears rolled down her cheeks. It wasn’t the role reversal of child supporting parent that brought her over the edge, so much as the feeling that she didn’t deserve the reassurances offered to her, not when it was her own selfishness and thoughtless actions that had put the child trying to cheer her in harm’s way. Yes, at the time she had been everything she had described to John; desperate, unthinking, and sick with grief. But how could she justify it when she had been raised to know better than to make deals with demons, when it now meant facing down the looming implications of what her decision meant for her husband and babies?

A fresh wave of anger and grief washed over her, and for a brief instant, she was almost too mired in self-condemnation to hear Dean mumbling something into the heavy flannel of her shirt.

“What’s that, baby?” she asked, swiping at her face with the back of her hand. Dean shifted, tilting his head and craning his neck back to peer up at her.

“If the bad guy comes back,” he repeated, “Castiel’ll fight ‘em.”

“Castle fight?” Mary attempted, lips twitching into a confused smile.

“Not castle,” he replied, wrinkling his nose, “Castiel.” She quirked an eyebrow at him, trying to recall which comic book hero or cartoon character she was forgetting.

“Who’s that?” she relented after a beat of unsuccessful mental searching, “A superhero?”

“No, an angel,” he insisted, elongating the vowel sounds impatiently, “the boy last night who beat up the bad guy.” Mary’s face slackened, her eyes unfocusing as she recalled the child-like thing she couldn’t explain, the one that had bellowed at her like something far older.

“Sweetheart,” she began slowly, leaning back for a better look at him, “How did you… How did you know the boy’s name? Or that he was an angel?”

“He told me so,” Dean said with a frightening certainty.

“When?” she pressed, fighting to keep her tone even.

“When he was in my room. He said he was an angel and he flew there and then he said to be quiet cuz there was somethin’ bad and we went to you and daddy’s room—but really really fast! Then he said his name was Cas-Castiel, and to wait ‘til he came back.” Mary pursed her lips as her thoughts strayed back to the moments before she had entered Sam’s room, to how she had awakened to cries from the baby monitor and Dean beside her in bed saying… Saying…

_“We gotta wait here, Cas said it’s not safe.”_

She had been too groggy then, too set on seeing to the baby before attempting to decipher what she had assumed to be the leftover ramblings from a bad dream that had brought her eldest into her bedroom. When she had finally fully awakened, everything in or on her mind had been shoved aside by the scene she had stumbled onto in the nursery. Now, there were too many thoughts at once and far too many emotions dangling from them.

The thing that her son now swore was an angel had in fact appeared to help them, singlehandedly facing down the demon and seeing to the family’s safe exit before the fire had claimed their home. Given all that had happened and could still happen, she wanted to take Dean at his word, to believe that angels were as real as she had always hoped they were. But something in her instincts wouldn’t let her give in, not after years of supernatural experiences wholly devoid of angels in any form, and not when too many of those experiences had involved something malevolent manipulating a child.

A dual vision of something both angelic and sinister whispering to her sleeping son, alongside the very real memory of a demon hovering beside her infant had her battling her own imagination for the last shreds of her composure. Biting her lip, she pushed back the rising tide of what-ifs and focused on what she did know: without a shadow of a doubt, her family was not out of danger, and she needed help.

“Thank you for telling me, Dean,” she said, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“You’re welcome, mommy,” he beamed, apparently cheered by the conversation that had brought her so much quiet turmoil.

“Hey,” she added with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, “If I put the TV on, you think you can wait quietly while I use the phone, just until daddy comes back with breakfast?” Dean nodded and Mary stood up, crossing the room to the television opposite the beds.

“Not too loud,” she cautioned as she switched it on, “Sammy’s still sleeping.” The boy repeated his earlier, silent affirmation, and she made her way to the room’s shared nightstand, now bare except for a somewhat battered rotary phone. Taking a deep breath in through her nose, she picked up the receiver and dialed a number that she had been trained to remember, but had hoped to never need ever again.

“Yeah?” a terse voice answered after a handful of rings.

“Uncle Ted?” she replied, trying not to sound too hesitant or uncertain.

“Who—” he began, “wait, Mary? Mary Campbell?”

“Yeah. Well, Winchester now.”

“That’s right, you got married. Right after Samuel and Deanna…”

“Yeah.” They each paused for a handful of seconds, faint sounds from Dean’s cartoons saving her from total silence on her end. That was the last time she had used the number: to call the Campbells, the side of the family she was never really close with, to help her clean up the mess the demon had made. After that, she had turned her back on all of it and never given it a second glance.

“If I’m remembering it right,” Ted resumed gruffly, “After your folks’ funeral, you told us that you were done with the life, which meant in no uncertain terms that you were done with this family.”

“Look,” she said, an edge creeping into her own voice, “The last time we spoke I’d lost some of the closest family I had. I think you can forgive me for needing distance.”

“... You could say,” he agreed with marked reluctance, “that none of us were all that kind that day.”

“Expecting death still doesn’t really prepare us for it, especially when it’s so close.”

“Guess not. Still, doesn’t explain what’s got you changing your mind and calling us up after— shit, how long?”

“Ten years.”

“Shiiit. So, yeah, why the long distance reunion? You suddenly got the itch back after a decade of whatever passes for normal these—”

“Something came into my house last night, Ted. Into my kid’s rooms.” Her uncle fell quiet once again, this time drawing in a slow, uneasy breath.

“Everyone made it out alright,” she explained before he could jump to the most grim conclusion, “ But I think the house is a total loss. There was a fire.”

“You get a look at what did it?” Ted asked, all business.

“I know exactly what did it,” she returned, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Dean was still captivated by the television, “Same thing that got mom and dad.”

“You’re saying a demon? _The_ demon? Just out of the blue?”

“Doesn’t matter why. They came after my family and now we’re out in the cold. I need a safe place for us, or at least safer than a motel.”

“Well, I mean there’s always the compound. That’d probably be the safest of any place I can think of.” Another pause, this time one of her own that she hoped came off as contemplative, rather than flat out refusal of his offer. She had never actually laid eyes on collection of buildings the Campbell’s used as their base of operations, but even a heardcore hunter like her father had found it extreme. It was more than likely safe from all manner of monsters, and perhaps even demons, but it was also no place for children she still very much wanted to shield from the family business.

“Or,” Ted posed, much to her encroaching relief, “if you had something a little more civilian in mind, there’s an old safe house we never bothered to sell off. Pretty sure no one still alive enough to care would mind if you took it over.”

“Safe house?” she repeated, optimism waning, “Meaning…? I have two little boys, Ted, so it can’t be an abandoned barn or some warehouse.”

“Meaning an honest to god house, Mary,” he scoffed, “I’m a hunter not an idiot. Being out’s sure got you tetchy.”

“That or being shoved back into it in almost the worst way.”

“Yeah, well people like us don’t usually get lucky enough to get that ‘almost’, remember?”

“Well enough.” She frowned and shook her head, both at the notion that she could ever forget and that ‘us’ once again included her. Perhaps it had never stopped.

“Good,” Ted concluded, “So, you want the place or not? I can’t promise what kind of shape it’ll be in, but it’s got a nice wrought iron fence, and, last I checked, no demon’s been there yet.”

“Where is it?” she asked

“Sioux Falls,” he proclaimed, “That too far?”

“Should be fine.”

“The we’re in business. Lemme find you the address.” She heard him set down the phone, and then a sudden wooden scraping and a rustling of papers as he presumably searched for what she needed.

“Here we go,” he cut back in, “You got a pen?”

“Hang on,” she said, yanking open the the night-stand’s single drawer and digging around for something to write with.

“Actually, Sioux Falls should be perfect,” Ted added, “There’s a guy up there, only just got into the life about a year back, mostly works with a mutual contact. He’s green, but from what I hear he’s a natural at tracking and lore, and he’s got a real hard on for the demon stuff. If anyone could help you, he’d be a good place to start.”

“Ted… Right now, I’m just trying to keep things together for my family and get them somewhere safe.”

“And you’re telling me that being out’s changed you so much you don’t wanna take care of the thing threatening them?” Mary turned, eyeing first the television-hypnotized Dean, and then the infant in the crib beside her, his tiny chest rising and falling in at last peaceful sleep. She closed her eyes and sighed.

“That’s what I thought,” Ted returned, “You found something to write with?”

“Yeah,” she said, turning back to the drawer to take up a half used notepad and a battered pen stamped with the motel’s logo.

“Alright. Here we go.”

 

* * *

 

As soon as John had returned, seemingly still himself and carrying a bag of greasy diner takeout, Mary recounted the conversations that had taken place without him, both with Dean and her uncle. The retelling of Dean’s angelic encounter went over about as poorly as she had expected, and it had taken almost all of her remaining energy to convince him of her own ignorance on the subject and to not begin probing their son for answers he wouldn’t have. On the other hand, information Ted had provided was much better received. She hadn’t been exactly giddy to bring up the hunter contact that her uncle had suggested, but in the interest of a newfound full disclosure and the trust she hoped to regain with it, she had offered John every bit of what she knew. To its credit, the notion of a place to secure the family and an individual with knowledge of what had endangered it managed to calm him into focusing on what lay ahead of them and all the steps they needed to take.

Before long, they were pitching themselves into all the madness that came with their plans to uproot the life they had haphazardly built. Hours bled into days, which bled into weeks as they went about disentangling themselves from Kansas, and resettling in South Dakota. The safe house hadn’t been falling to hell so much as in need of some urgent TLC, which John jumped to without any prompting, allowing repairs to take up most of his time and providing a valid enough excuse for the distance and silence between them. Thankfully, the home had come somewhat furnished, giving Mary a little room to breathe as she went about replacing what the fire had taken, a daunting sum that amounted to just about everything shy of personal documents and a few small appliances.

The Monday before Thanksgiving, the last of the new furniture arrived, purchased using an insurance settlement that had been more substantial than she had expected, but still paltry when she considered all it was meant to account for. As she watched Dean excitedly dart between the delivery men carting in the bed frames and mattresses meant to replace too-stiff, military-style cots, she felt a tentative sense of accomplishment, alongside an almost painful fullness in her heart for her son. He had been so good through everything, but then again he always was. When Sam was born, when she and John fought, and now with this latest and most frightening upheaval, he was almost always sweeter and better behaved than she could ever hope, so much so that she often wondered if something in his upbringing had him acting far more selflessly than any child should.

“Ma’am?” a nearby voiced called. Mary glanced over to the direction of the summons and found a man in coveralls holding a pen and clipboard out to her.

“We’re about done,” he explained, gesturing toward the house with his free hand, “Your husband showed us where to put everything, so alls we need is a signature.”

“Right,” she replied, accepting the paperwork and scanning for a place to sign.

“So,” the man continued, “You guys new in town or just looked at all your old digs and figured it was time for a change?”

“Little of both maybe?” Eyes finally landing on the line she was looking for, she hastily signed the delivery notice and handed back the clipboard and writing implement. She then reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out what she hoped was a decent enough tip.

“Thank you so much,” she said, offering the money to him and glancing at the name sewn onto his uniform, “mister… Casey?”

“Yeah, but you can call me Justin,” he returned with a shrug, “And you can go ahead and put that away..”

“Mary,” she corrected, “And please, for all your hard work.”

“Nah, your money’s no good here. Fresh starts are tough, and my guys are just happy to help.” He gently pushed the money back toward her, and the hard lump already forming in her throat became a dull ache in her ribs. Between the lasting rawness of death of her previous fresh start, and the man’s kindness, it seemed she was closer to overwhelmed than she thought.

“You take care now,” the man said, offering a playful two fingered salute before rejoining his co-workers and climbing into the cab of the delivery truck. As Mary watched the Lowkey Delivery Co. truck rumble away, John sidled up to her, mopping sweat from his brow with a dollar-store dishrag.

“That the last of the deliveries?” he asked mildly,  tucking the cloth into his back pocket.

“Yep,” she replied, tentatively smiling at her husband and the easy conversation he appeared to be initiating. It wasn’t that they avoided one another completely, or that all of their interactions were completely devoid of any lasting affection and weighted down with unrest. But she could still feel the change between them, could even now see the hurt and question he was more than entitled to swimming just beneath the surface of his gaze each time their eyes met.

“So,” she attempted, “I know it’s on the early side, but maybe we could start dinner? Pull something decent together between the two of us?”

“Actually,” he suggested, raising an eyebrow, “I was thinking we could go talk to that guy your uncle told you about. The demon expert?” Mary bit the inside of her cheek. She had been wondering when he would bring it up, in part dreading the inevitable lapses in repairs and settling in that would have offered it a foothold in his thoughts.

“He never said expert,” she argued, “Just that they were a focus of his, something that’s got his attention, last he’d heard about him. And don’t you think we have a few more pressing issues? Like work, for instance? For either of us?

“Jobs won’t matter if that demon comes back and we’re not ready,” John countered, “First and foremost, we gotta get the rest of our bases covered.”

“Meaning?” she asked.

“You said so yourself: reinforcing the fence, and keeping up the salt lines might only do so much. We need to see if there’s better ways of protecting things. Not to mention we haven’t even started on how we’re gonna find and kill that thing.” Mary mentally cursed the level of honesty she had adopted. Those were her own words, almost verbatim, being tossed back at her, along with a vehemence to hunt something possibly unkillable bolstered by her own desire to destroy it.

She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest “You said us, as in you and me.”

“Yeah,” John agreed, “I think it’d probably be better if you made the introductions, hunter to hunter.”

“Fair enough,” she mused, ignoring the potential jab, “But what about the boys?”

“I guess they come with.”

“Not all hunters are decent people, John. In fact, the community’s got its fair share of nut jobs, people I wouldn’t let within 100 feet of the kids.”

“Well, either we bring ‘em or I go alone.”

“Or _I_ go alone, scope things out first.”

“Nope. From now on, I’m in the loop on this all the way, period. Anyway, experienced or not, if you think I’d let you go off to some potential psycho’s place on your own, you’re the crazy one.” Mary regarded him silently, trying not to let his lasting concern for her wellbeing override her annoyance at his obstinance.

“Fine,”’she said finally, “But I knock on the door, and you wait in the car until I say so. If things turn south, you put your foot on the gas and get the boys the hell out of there.”

“Fair enough,” he echoed with a triumphant set of his jaw. Shaking her head, she stalked off toward the house to wrangle the children and prepare them for travel.

About twenty minutes later, they were driving beneath a somewhat ramshackle metal sign that read “Singer’s Auto Salvage,” and past towering stacks of wrecked vehicles on a winding dirt road. Eventually, the maze-like path ended in a blue-grey, two-story house, and John stopped the impala beside a truck parked next to the dwelling’s narrow front porch.

“Where are we?” Dean asked, and when Mary twisted to face him she found the boy glancing through the windows with wide, curious eyes.

“Remember daddy’s repair shop?” she quizzed gently.

“Uh huh,” he nodded, still peering out at their surroundings.

“It’s kind of like that, except they take pieces of broken cars to give to ones that still work.”

“Like Frankenstein?” Mary frowned and shot a look at her husband, who shrugged somewhat guiltily.

“Halloween marathon,” he explained, “You know, before all the monster stuff meant anything. I was up. He couldn’t sleep…” Mary rolled her eyes and unbuckled her seatbelt.

“Just wait here,” she grumbled, popping open the front passenger door, “and keep the engine running.” With that, she climbed out of the car, shoved the exit closed with a hip, and made her way on to the front porch. Sighing at yet another step away from her shattered normalcy, she balled up a fist and knocked on the front door. At first nothing happened, and she wondered, not without a hint of relief, if no one was home. But then, she heard the rumble and rasp of barely hushed voices.

“If they made it past the wards,” the first coaxed, “It’s probably just somebody lookin’ for directions or, god forbid, actual service.”

“Either’s as good a reason as any to wait ‘em out and be on our way,” the other argued.

“Huntin’ ain’t payin’ your bills, Bobby,” the first voice shot back, sounding closer now, “Might do the business good to show a little courtesy.” There was a short, disinterested grunt in reply and then the door swung open, revealing a man several years older than herself, with a polite, if not somewhat forced smile stretching across his face.

“Sorry ma’am,” he demurred, “But uh, salvage yard’s closed today. If you need directions somewhere, I could maybe--”

“Bobby Singer?” she interrupted. The man’s smile faded, replaced by something harder and more fitting against his sharp features.

“Who exactly is asking?” he queried warily.

“Used to be a Campbell,” she explained, keeping eye contact almost defiantly, “But I married out of it about a decade back.”

“Campbells?” he repeated with a skeptical twitch of his brow, “What would they want with Bobby? Those assholes don’t usually play well with others, no offense.”

“None taken. Like I said, married out of it. Anyway, it isn’t them that’s looking for him, it’s me… And my husband.” The man glanced over her shoulder before returning his gaze to her.

“Help with what?” he asked.

“Do you mind if I--We come in?” she returned, “I’d feel better discussing this when we’re less out in the open. I promise, we’ll be able to cross any salt lines or iron you’ve got laid down.”

‘Heh,” he chuckled, “I’m sure you will. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to get all the way back here. In the first place”

“So…?”

“Well, ain’t my place to invite you into, but sure, come on in.” He waved her inside and before she could turn back to the car, she heard the impala doors open and shut, then the sound of her family’s approaching footsteps.

“I thought I told you to wait,” Mary sighed as John joined her on the doorstep, Dean at his side and Sam in his arms.

“And let you go in there all by yourself?” he countered, “Yeah right.”

“You two need a minute?” the man asked, “Cuz I already got one human stormcloud inside.”

“No,” Mary answered, “Sorry.” With a final warning look at her husband, she took hold of Dean’s hand, and allowed the man to lead them into the house’s front hallway.

“I’m Rufus, by the way,” he said as he closed the door behind them, “Rufus Turner.”

“Same Turner that took out the Vamp nest in Omaha?” Mary asked, pausing in her careful perusal of their new surroundings.

“The same,” he replied with a smirk, “Nice to see my reputation proceeds me.”

“If by reputation you mean my dad grumbling about some fool, wet-behind the ears kid getting lucky, then yeah.” Rufus laughed, his smirk cracking into a genuine grin.

“Yeah, that was me,” he agreed, “I was just starting back then. Now, I got my own wet-behind the ears fool to deal with.”

“Who you calling a fool, ya idjit?” the voice from before called from a nearby room, “If anything, you’re the fool for letting strangers into _my_ home.”

“Let’s not forget who’s showing who the ropes around this whole gig, Bobby,” Rufus cautioned, “And for your information, these strangers are visitors for you, sent by other hunters.” Before Bobby could respond, Rufus guided them several feet deeper into the house, to room that looked like a library had exploded all over it. There were books on just about every surface, including a sagging couch against the right hand wall. At the far end of the space was a desk, with a bearded man behind it, a surly look on his face and an open bottle of something amber and cheap before him.

“Hunters?” he muttered, “What would hunters want with me?”

“Same thing I was wondering,” Rufus added, leaning against the entryway’s wide door frame, “Seeing how you’re expertise is limited to me pulling your ass out of the fire.”

“Former hunter, and my family,” Mary jumped in, before they could get going, “And we heard that you were someone we could talk to about research, and lore, especially when it comes to demons.” Bobby pressed his lips together, his expression shifting from irritated to grim.

“Why would a nice family like yourselves,” Rufus remarked incredulously, “want to fool around with demons, miss, uh--”

“Winchester,” Mary supplied, “Mary Winchester. And this is my husband John, and my sons, Sam and Dean. And we don’t want to be involved with any of it, but that’s not really an option anymore.”

“You’re sayin’,” Bobby began quietly, “That you folks tangled with a demon? And made it out?”

“It’s… Not that simple,” Mary admitted.

“I’ll say,” John mumbled under his breath.

“There was a bad guy,” Dean chimed in, “In Sammy’s room.” A kind of wistful smile flashed across Bobby’s face so quickly that one could argue that it had never appeared to begin with.

“That so?” he asked, gruff demeanor returning.

“Uh huh,” Dean continued, “And there was a fire too, but Cas helped, so we were OK.” Bobby’s eyebrow quirked up in what was either confusion, interest or both. John bit his lip, expression darkening at the mention of the alleged angel.

“Dean,” Mary started gently before he could go into greater detail, kneeling beside him, “Daddy and I need to talk to Mr. Singer--”

“Bobby’s just fine,” he corrected.

“We need to talk to Bobby,” she affirmed, “About some boring, grown up stuff for a little while. Do you think you could, um--”

“You like comic books?” Bobby broke in again, “I ain’t got much but you can look at ‘em if you’re real careful.” Dean nodded enthusiastically, and the man reached beneath his desk, hooking a finger of his free hand at him to gesture him closer. The boy turned an endearingly questioning look Mary’s way, and when she nodded, he rushed to the side of the desk and accepted the handful of slim, paper volumes Bobby held out to him.

“Better read ‘em in the kitchen,” he advised, “And if you think you can be real careful, Rufus here’ll find you something to drink.” Dean spun around to face Rufus, who, after a dubious squint at his friend, shrugged and motioned for Dean to follow.

“Thank you,” Mary said, rising to her feet.

“Yeah well,” Bobby replied, also choosing to stand, and moving out from behind the desk, “Don’t thank me yet. Even without hearing all you have to say, I don’t know that I can do much of anything for you. Really, you’d probably be better off asking Rufus for help.”  
“But her people said you were the one to talk to,” John insisted with an edge of frustration, handing Sam over to Mary, “He told my wife you were some kind of born scholar when it came to hitting the books and that demons were your thing.” Bobby scoffed bitterly and crossed his arms, leaning against the front edge of his workstation.

“Dunno about scholar,’ he huffed, “But any time I’m not on a case with Rufus, I’ve had my nose in some book or another, and I’d like to think I’ve gotten decent at it. Your people probably know about me from back in the early days, when I used to call around bothering just about anyone who would answer about how to drag myself in deeper. Half the time it was just to keep any kind of sane… After one of those things got into my wife...”

“I lost my dad that way,” Mary volunteered, sensing that pointed empathy would be better than a weak apology.

“You got hit twice?” Bobby exclaimed, “How’d you manage that?”

“Same demon, both times,” she recounted.  
“So what? You exorcised it and it came back pissed?”

“Exorcism?” John coughed, “As in ‘the power of Christ compels you’ kinda shit?”

“Not in so many words, but yeah,” Bobby confirmed.

“And that’s how you killed it?” John queried hopefully, “The one that… Took your wife?”

“Nope,” Rufus said, resuming his slouched position, this time in the doorway leading into the kitchen, “That’s how _I_ sent it away. Far as we know, you can’t kill ‘em.”

“And believe me, I’ve looked,” Bobby added.

“Well then we keep looking,” John concluded, “Hell, they also said you were good at tracking. Maybe we hunt down one of those bastards and--”

“Slow down cowboy,” Rufus interrupted, shaking his head, “You’re new to all this, more than even Bobby, and a hell of a lot greener than me or your wife. You can’t just go after demons, ‘less you wanna make Mary here a widow and those boys of yours half an orphan each.”

“You’re sayin’ I’m under-qualified to protect my family?” John posed, the corner of his mouth pulling into a cynical jeer.

“I’m saying demons take out seasoned hunters,” Rufus clarified, “And I’m guessing you’ve never even seen the basic stuff people like us gotta deal with, let alone faced it down and won.”

“So show me how.”

“Look, contrary to popular belief, I’m not runnin’ a camp for crazy folks lookin’ to get themselves killed in the worst kinda ways. So I’d suggest you let my one and only trainee school your ass on how to ward up your house, maybe let the wife show you some pointers in case of emergency, and leave it at that. Because this life? It ain’t no hobby. It’s rough, and it’s mean, and sooner or later it gets you killed. Ask her.” He pointed at Mary, and she was only able to return the glare John flipped to her for a moment before dropping her eyes to the floor.

“This demon,” John growled, low and dangerous, “It’s touched my family twice now and it’s got no problem killing off parts of it to have its way. You don’t wanna help me stop it? Fine. I’ll take whatever scraps of protection your sorry asses deign to give me and figure out my own way. Any way you slice it, I’m not gonna have me and mine looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives because you convinced me not to step up.” The room fell silent as John looked from face to face, a challenge electrifying his stare and posture.

“Balls, if this ain’t too close for comfort,” Bobby grumbled finally, grabbing for the bottle on his desk and taking a quick pull, “Tell me I didn’t sound that out of my mind.”

“More,” Rufus spat, stare still fixed on John, “And apparently I’m just as much a sucker now as I was then.”

“So what?” John asked, his shoulders still visibly tense, “You’re gonna help?”

“Help’s not the word I’d use,” Rufus quipped, “But yeah. I’ll give you what you’re asking for you, dumb son of a--” He stopped, catching himself and taking a quick glance back into the kitchen.

“So, what does that mean?” John tested.

“It means you saddle up,” the older hunter fired back, “And get a taste of what your fool head has you itching to get in bed with.”

“Wait, you mean now?” Bobby sputtered, “Right now? This one?”

“You said it was a routine salt and burn,” Rufus shrugged, “And only a couple states over. We’re wheels up in 30 if you really mean it, hard ass.” Mary balked, her gaze darting between the three men before ultimately landing on her husband.

“John,” she admonished, shaking her head, “You can’t just… Just pick up and leave like this. You have no idea what you’re getting into.” He paused for a contemplative moment, looking at her and yet somehow through her at the same time.

“Looks like I’m gonna find out,” he decided.

“John,” she pressed, “I know that you think this is the best way but--”

“Do you have a better one?” he contested, “Can you honestly tell me you know of a better way than for me to dig into this with both hands?”

“John, we have two boys to look after.”

“What do you think I’m trying to do?” She faltered and it was enough to have his jaw set in that infuriating cast it took when he’d made up his mind.

“And,” Rufus resumed in a soft tone that she could only assume was a rough go at sympathy. “I don’t suppose you’re gonna come along too? For a refresher course?”

“No,” Mary said, turning all of her now glassy-eyed focus to the infant in her arms, “Like I said, I’ve got my boys to look after. Anyway, it’s not like I’ve ever really forgotten. Any of it.”

 

* * *

 

Castiel watched as the adult humans busied themselves with this latest development, dividing his attentions unequally between the individuals gathered in the house hidden amongst vehicular refuse. He briefly allowed himself to be drawn to the careful preparations of Rufus Turner and Robert--no, Bobby-- Singer, taking note of the vastly different ways each approached their impending hunt. But the bulk of his attention lay with the humans he had been charged with watching over. With a well-cultivated patience and an undertone of curiosity he had never encountered in hell, he observed each hasty and fraught conversation between John and Mary on the subject of his impending departure, and their every attempt to keep their turmoil from Dean; a, sadly,  pointless endeavor given that child was already at least aware of the circumstances surrounding him. When it came time for Mary to drive back to their home without her husband beside her, an occasion marked by a pained and somewhat perfunctory kiss, Castiel briefly wondered if he should attempt to intervene in their parting, before ultimately letting the urge pass. He was there to look in on their lives, to take action should Azazel and his minions being preying upon the family anew, not to impede their every questionable decision, or prevent what seemed to be John Winchester’s inevitable foray into hunting the evils of the world made manifest.

Of the two diverging parties, he chose to stay with the one remaining in Sioux Falls, rationalizing that he could use either Rufus or Bobby to circumvent the warding Gabriel had placed on John should he need to locate him in a hurry, and that if a demon were to strike, it would likely be at the child Lucifer had set his sights on.

He placed himself in the back seat of vehicle John had left in Mary’s charge, still imperceptible even to the infant, and continued his vigil.

Mary gripped the steering wheel tightly, trying and failing not to appear distraught as she glanced between the road and the book of warding sigils she had dropped into the bench seat after Bobby had tentatively offered it, as if exchanging it for her spouse. In all her distraction, she seemed to believe that Dean was asleep, when the boy was in fact wide awake and practically twitching with unspoken questions.

“Is,” he began at last, “Is daddy gone again like last time?” Mary startled and Castiel wasn’t sure if it was the sudden conversation or the question itself that had frightened her.

“No,” she replied, perhaps more forcefully than she had meant to, “No, baby. This time… This time daddy is going away so he can make us safe.”

“Like,” Dean reasoned, contorting his face as he worked toward understanding, “Like how Cas went to fight the bad guy and said to wait with you?” The statement managed to give both Mary _and_ Castiel pause. For her part, the woman was still unnerved by the mere idea of the angel, but Castiel himself was uncertain of how he felt about a small child hero-worshipping or even vaguely idolizing a being that was far less angelic than most of his brethren.

“M-maybe, sweetheart,” Mary responded hesitantly, “I don’t know, I… I wasn’t there.”

“Is daddy gonna fight the bad guy?” Dean asked, “The same one that Cas did?”

“Not... “ Mary replied slowly,  “No.”  
“Different ones?” Castiel could feel a struggle surging through her, nothing so dire as the kind  he had seen far too many humans fall prey too, but a fierce one nonetheless. It was a battle between her fears, and the questions of what was necessary and right for her child.

“Monsters, baby,” she relented, voice thin and close to fracturing, “The thing in Sammy’s room was a monster.”

“Like the ones in the Halloween movie?” Dean posited innocently.

“Worse,” she sighed raggedly, “But I promise you, that your father and I won’t let anything happen to you, OK?”

“Mhm.”

“I mean it Dean. I promise.” A hush fell over the passengers of the car, save for Sam softly cooing to himself, and the discomfort of Dean’s lingering confusion and his mother’s persistent anxieties was palpable.

“Why did the monster go to our house?” the boy resumed softly. This was enough to bring his mother to the breaking point.

“It’s my fault,” she confessed, choking back a sob, but taking full advantage of her son’s inability to see her dampened face, “Mommy--I made a mistake and let the monster in.” Tiny brow knitting, Dean unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed forward, reaching his arms over the back of the front seat to his mother’s neck and drawing a surprised gasp from the woman.

“I still love you mommy,” he mumbled into her hair. Carefully, Mary took one hand off of the wheel and squeezed one of his.

“I love you too,” she whispered. She let go of him and pulled the sleeve of her jacket down to dry her cheeks.

“Alright young man,” she said, taking on a sterner tone, “Sit back down and buckle up before you hurt yourself. Dean released her and scrambled backward to do as he was told. Forgiveness was something that Castiel understood, was aware of, but not something he had much practical experience with, and as the silence descended over the three Winchesters once again, he felt the notion of it touch him beyond that of a casual observer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been clear on which happened first, the Winchester fire or Mrs. Singer's death, so for convenience's sake, I had Bobby's trauma first. In the same vein, I figured the year Rufus was nice (1985, worst year of his life) would take place after he met and started working with Bobby (and, in this universe, John). Long story short, just filling blanks with my own head-canons, sorry if I've managed to miss and alter things that are already set in stone canon.
> 
> PS: Did you spot the tricky thing?


	5. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel settles into his new role, while Mary joins John on a long distance hunt for ghouls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this is late! Please enjoy and expect a more timely chapter next week!

**SEPTEMBER 1986**

 

After only a short while watching the Winchester family, Castiel had to grudgingly admit that Gabriel was right. They weren’t perfect beings and they weren’t always interesting (they sometimes spent an inordinate amount of time in front of the television), but they were more often than not fascinating to watch and a welcome reprieve from presiding over the worst instances of humanity.  
One of the more captivating facets of his watch was how much the family was able to accomplish in what seemed to Castiel to be little more than a moment. Under the guidance of not only Bobby and Rufus, but a well-versed man in Washington, John’s hunting experience grew exponentially from his first foray into putting a vengeful spirit to rest. By the time the events that had set him on his new path were nearly three years behind him, John had become a competent enough hunter to often work on his own, erasing any lingering doubt of his capabilities. The newfound prowess didn’t appear to ease any of the trepidation his wife had each time he took on a new mission, but Mary had seemingly given up that particular battle. For the most part, the woman appeared to bury herself in all manner of work, be it minding her two sons, or earning the family a modest enough income through the salvage yard with the help of both her husband and Bobby’s automotive expertise.

The job she had talked the surly hunter into providing her also afforded a considerable amount of time to research demons and leads on Azazel’s movements, a task she took on with just as much fervor as anything else. It was through Mary’s careful study that Castiel was able to learn of the other families the demon had targeted, and of the fires that had left many far less fortunate and alive than the Winchesters. Her dogged analysis did hold the very real possibility of bringing her closer to what endangered her, but Mary was nowhere near as impulsive as her husband, and Castiel felt he would have ample warning should he need to step in.

The boys were a different kind of marvel altogether when it came to the rapid effects of time. Though he had thus far shown no signs of the demonic influence Castiel often sought while overseeing him, Sam’s transformation from infant to toddler was engrossing in its own way. Nearly all of the humans he had had occasion to interact with were fully grown and he had never bothered with any of the earlier development that had preceded their downward spirals. It was nothing short of intriguing to observe the child’s leap from immobility and incoherent babbling to walking and speaking in a manner his family could understand.

The changes in Dean were far more subtle, but amounted to much more than physical growth. Each year seemed to bring on another layer of emotional and intellectual complexity, either bolstered by his ever shifting environment or developing in spite of it.

In time, Castiel was also able to pick out which parts of their lives he enjoyed observing most. The easy rumble of John Winchester’s laugh when he had occasion to do so, how Mary absent-mindedly  hummed the melodies of that same musical group as she fought her way through invoices, ancient tomes, or recipes for dinners which she burned more often than not. Or the look upon Sam's face when he grasped a concept that had once been entirely foreign to him. There was also the draw of Earth itself, in the dual virility and stillness its nature presented when he had opportunity to take it all in, often during quiet moments where he could be all but certain of his charges' security. There was surprising and wholly unexpected contentment in this rediscovery of a planet far evolved beyond the barren wastes he had crashed to so long ago, and its stark contrast to the underworld he once held dominion over.

More than anything else however , Castiel most appreciated his talks with the eldest Winchester child.

It had begun the night of John’s first departure, when he had found himself unable to shake off the disquiet brought on by the tone of his lasting impression upon the boy. Confronted with this lingering effect and the impact of Mary’s act of contrition, he had decided to take his own measures to set the child straight. Of course, there was no way for him to directly speak to Dean without deafening him or frivolously reacquiring his vessel, so he had opted to slip into his dreams, something he understood in theory but had never before put into practice.

He had found his way in easily enough, taking the form that the boy would recognize best and slipping into the the  sleepy imaginings with careful, tentative steps. To his chagrin and relief, Dean had been delighted to see him, but, as he had not undertaken the visit to be further lionized, he had quickly worked to remedy the excitement, fighting for explanations a child would understand.

 _“I am not like the angels your mother has told you about, Dean,”_ he had settled on, _“I have done… Bad things.”_

 _“But,”_ the boy had reasoned gently, _“You stopped the bad--the monster.”_

 _“Yes,”_ Castiel had been forced to agree, _“But I helped make the monster, and more like him.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because… I was angry and I made a mistake.”_

_“Like when Daddy yells.”_

_“Worse than that.”_

_  
_ _“But if you’re bad… Why’d you help Mommy? And Sammy?”_

_“I… I was trying to stop more bad from happening.”_

_“That’s good guy stuff.”_ They had continued on in that way for some time, with Castiel finding no way around the childish logic short of frightening the boy in ways he had no intention of undertaking. Eventually, he had allowed himself to be partially reasoned to Dean’s side of thinking; that, in spite of all the lapsed angel’s misdeeds, the boy could in fact count on the idea that he would never become a target of Castiel’s darker nature, and therefore had no reason to add him to the list of very real fears in his supernaturally kissed existence. They had ended their discourse on a promise that Dean would relax his mention of angels to his mother, for the sake of her peace of mind, and an invitation for Castiel to ‘come play’ sometime soon. He hadn’t truly expected to take Dean up on his offer, but eventually his curiosities and the boy’s own repeated prayers got the better of him.

From then on, Dean had become a second, deeper window into the parts of humanity that he was incapable of understanding through distant observation. Things like why Batman was the best, even without super powers, how suck, which Dean is not allowed to say out loud, has very little to do with actual vacuums or suction, or how cheeseburgers and pie were always the superior choice when it came to meals, in spite of their lack of nutritional benefit. The moments where the conversation fell away were enlightening as well, like the times when they simply sat in a rendition of Dean’s old room, and Castiel could feel how much he missed not just the place but the feel of it, before the changes had come. Or the times when he was able to bear witness to the nightmares that sometimes plagued the boy, just as often filled with benign terrors such as his classmates not liking him, or his father never coming back from a hunt, as they were with the threat of yellow-eyed monsters.

They didn’t speak every night. Some evenings, Dean fell into a dreamless sleep, and Castiel was made to find diversion in the passive vigilance he maintained during the human’s waking hours. He didn’t mind it, not given all that there was to see and keep watch for outside of the boy’s head, but he would be lying if he claimed to prefer it over the dreamtime conversations.

The third Thursday after Dean started started second grade was a night of restlessness, and it was a long hard fight for him to reach the sleep that would allow Castiel to get to the root of what troubled him. Sometime around midnight the boy fell into a fitful slumber, and the angel was able to drift into the boy’s mind, ultimately finding him seated at a desk in the back of an otherwise empty classroom, his expression grim and pensive.

“Dean?” he greeted, settling Jimmy’s form into a seat beside him. Dean glanced over and offered a vague, distracted smile.

“Hi Cas,” he said.

“Something is troubling you?” Castiel attempted, making it a question in spite of the obvious, as he had often seen Mary do with some measure of success. Dean sighed and set an elbow on the table before him, resting his head into his palm glumly.

“Mom and dad are gonna go on a hunt, together,” he explained. Castiel nodded. He had witnessed the circumstances and heard the sometimes combative conversations that had led up to this recent development. As of late, it wasn’t uncommon for Mary to take part in the odd supernatural extermination. John had been managed to talk her into a few nearby pursuits above and beyond her research, ones that a required heavier lifting than he could handle alone when Bobby and Rufus were otherwise occupied, and were near enough not to necessitate overnight travel. However, this job was several hundred miles away, and Castiel had been surprised she had agreed to take on something that put them both so far apart from her children, temporary though it may be.

“And you are…Worried?” Castiel attempted, “Bobby is a capable hunter. You needn’t fear for your safety while he looks after you.”

“Uncle Bobby‘s tough,” Dean agreed, “mom and dad too. But…”

“But?” Castiel pressed.

“But… When they’re mad, they don’t help each other. And if it’s like that, the monsters could get ‘em both.” Castiel frowned. It was no deep secret that the two of them sometimes disagreed, often less discreetly than either of them meant to, or that those squabbles mainly revolved around the topic of hunting. But the weeks leading up to the impending trip had been relatively calm.

“Why do you believe they will be angry with one another?” he asked, wondering if he had missed some heated or particularly bitter exchange.

“I fell asleep,” Dean sighed, his tone both guilty and impatient, “We were doing the times tables and I just got really tired.”

“You fell asleep during class?” Castiel repeated.

“Yeah. And now the teacher wants to talk to them.”

“Why would that make them argue?”

“Because I was tired from staying up with dad, to talk about monsters and stuff. He wants me to know about that too, like school but extra, just in case.”

“And your mother doesn’t like that.” Dean shook his head sullenly and the angel at last had a firm understanding of the boy’s agitation. The subject of the his involvement in what they referred to as ‘the life’ was a familiar bone of contention between Mary and John, and one that even managed to trouble Castiel. A part of him, a coolly rational and militarized part that he was becoming less and less fond of with each passing century, could see John’s side with unobstructed clarity. Dean’s life was, at the moment, not destined to be one free of the dangers most other humans would never be made aware of, and for all the protections that surrounded him, an understanding of what could one day come knocking was the best form of armament besides actual weaponry. But years away from battle and now hell had also helped to reveal the wisdom in Mary’s point of view. The boy was just that: a boy, and to set about readying him for battle like a soldier in waiting was reckless, and even unfair. It did not help that Castiel seemed incapable of dismissing his own personal experience and how it colored his opinions in either direction.

“I… I am sorry,” he said finally lacking anything more comforting or revelatory.

“I don’t wanna make them fight again,” Dean murmured, staring down at the imagined wood-grain of the desk.

“You do not make them fight,” Castiel countered, just shy of chastising.  
“Mhm. They fight cuz of me, a lot.” Castiel ran over the interactions he had witnessed, not just the words but the feelings behind them, trying to land on something useful.

“I believe,” he began, capable of nothing short of honesty but still choosing his words carefully, “your parents fight because they are afraid.”

“Scared?” Dean said skeptically, “Mom and Dad are super tough.”

“Strong people still get scared, Dean,” he insisted.

“Even you?”

“... Yes, I have been afraid before.”

“But what’s that gotta do with fighting?”

“They… They both want to protect you. But, they can’t agree how. They want different things. Do you understand?”

“I guess. Kinda how, dad says I gotta learn about all the stuff him and Uncle Bobby and Rufus are fighting, so I can help keep mom and Sammy safe, but then mom says I don’t have to?”

“Yes exactly that.” Dean nodded slowly and before Castiel could think better of it, a question pushed past the manifestation of his lips, one that had never before been of any import in his own existence, even when he’d had occasion to ask it of himself.

“What do you want, Dean?” he asked

“I dunno,” the boy shrugged, “I guess… Help Dad, but do school and stuff too? I don’t want the monsters to get anybody but I like school. Also, I don’t want mom to be mad.”

“That is,” he returned thoughtfully, “Quite a lot to place upon yourself.”

“Cuz I’m just a kid?”

“Because it would be difficult for anyone.” Striking a balance between duty and desire was a concept that he was not meant to grasp, but had nonetheless become familiar with, alongside the brutal consequences of failure.

“But,” Dean began, brightening suddenly, “You could help too, right?

“Dean,” he cautioned, “It is true that I am here to watch over your family, to see that nothing like what happened in Sam’s room takes place again. But--”

“So watch ‘em,” the child interrupted, “When they go away, go with ‘em. And if they fight and… Split up, you can help, like last time.”

“It isn’t that--”

“Please Cas? Me ‘n Sammy’ll be with Uncle Bobby, so it’s ok for you to go.” Castiel frowned, turning over countless beginnings of arguments that years of observations seemed to counter. Singer’s Salvage was, from a tactical standpoint, the safest location for miles in terms of warding and protections Bobby himself could provide. Furthermore, Mary and John Winchester did tend to function poorly as a unit whilst in the midst of an argument, and anything short of cohesion in their line of work could be deadly. Although his priorities predominantly lay with the minding children destined to serve as his brother’s vessels, particularly the one tainted with Azazel’s blood, he could not deny the prudence in seeing to the survival of the beings that would work hardest to protect them.  Once again, in spite of their differences in age and strategic experience, Castiel was unable to find reasonable fault in Dean’s logic.

“I suppose,” he conceded grudgingly, not bothering to hide his mild irritation, “That accompanying your parents on this hunt may be a sound course of action.” Dean stared at him silently, lips twisted sideways in confusion.

“I mean to say,” Castiel clarified, “Yes. I will go with your parents.”

“Really?” Dean asked, face cracking into a hopeful smile.

“Yes,” the angel repeated, “Did something in my words seem disingenuous? I thought I had been clearer the second time.”

“Thanks Cas. You’re a good friend.” Castiel opened his mouth to protest but before he could speak the scene was already folding in on itself as the boy’s mind began cycling through stages of sleep anew. With a final frown he slid from the collapsing setting and was once more fully concentrated in the realm of reality beyond the veil of mortal perception, feeling almost as ill at ease as when he had first entered Dean’s dreams. True, he was interacting with a being largely unseasoned by the hardships of life, but his willingness to call him ‘friend’ was bewildering. The child had no grasp of the depth of what Castiel was, or what he had been and done throughout the course of his existence, and yet a faith instilled by a few words and actions had been all it took to secure his trust. He was beginning to better understand something of how easy it was for humans to fall prey to the wiles of demons cloaked in all manner of innocuous guise, and while in the past this may have garnered his continued disdain of either race, it now instilled in him a nascent and unbidden… What? Fear seemed to strong a word, but it was nearly impossible to say for certain when his most impactful dealings with emotion were centuries of disgust and what he had thought to be righteous anger. Angels, even a warped version such as himself, were not built for these sensations and thus they were a puzzle he was ill-equipped to solve.

In the end, as the hours pressed ever closer to the dawn of a new day, Castiel abandoned this frustrating introspection and turned his attention toward what was to come of the agreement he had brokered with Dean. There was every possibility that the boy’s concerns were unfounded, but should the Winchesters’ actions require a less passive form of guardianship, he could not afford distraction.

 

* * *

 

“Mrs. Winchester,” the teacher began, “I would like to start off by saying that Dean is a great student. It’s early in the year, but I can already see so much potential in him.” Mary nodded, giving a small, tight-lipped smile. She, John, and Dean’s second grade teacher Ms. Ward were meeting in the woman’s now empty classroom, Ms. Ward behind a large metal desk and the two of them sat before her in uncomfortable plastic chairs. The topic of their conversation, an uncharacteristically sullen Dean, waited in the hallway just outside, no doubt eavesdropping for exactly how much trouble he was in.

“Yeah,” John drawled, “As nice as that is to hear, I doubt you called us in to talk about how wonderful our boy is.”

“Yes, well,” Ms. Ward continued, “While you aren’t wrong there, I just want to make it clear that your son isn’t in any trouble. But, this early in the school year we want to make sure we get a handle on any potential… Issues, before they become a problem.”

“Issues?” Mary repeated, brow faintly knitted.

“Nothing serious,” the woman reassured, “It’s just that, Dean fell asleep in class the other day, and I just wanted to check in with the two of you, and make sure everything is alright. You know, outside of the classroom.”

“Just conked out right at his desk, huh?” John asked, and Mary caught the hint of a thoughtful smirk forming at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” Ms. Ward agreed, “This is the first time he’s fallen asleep, but it isn’t the only time I’ve noticed him looking a bit, shall we say, worn out? I’m sure you can understand my concern. A healthy boy unable to keep his eyes open through lessons he usually seems eager to take part in… It’s unusual to say the least.” Mary opened her mouth to provide an answer she hoped would be far more sane than the truth, but John beat her to the punch.

“Oh, he’s healthy alright,” he chuckled, “Smart too. Maybe too smart for his own good.”

  
“I’m sorry, Mr. Winchester, I don’t follow,” Ms. Ward said politely.

“I mean, we send him to bed at a reasonable time,” John explained, “But what do you do when ya can’t get the kid to stop reading? Give ‘em a lecture? Take away his books?”

“He… He’s staying up to read?”

“Whatever he can get his hands on. We’ve tried hidin’ the flashlights but we think he might be usin’ his night light when everyone else is asleep.” The woman cocked her head, lips parted but unmoving for a few beats before she let out something between a cough and a relieved laugh.

“That is a… Unique problem to have,” she conceded.

“Pitfalls of cleverness I s’pose,” replied with an easy grin that had Mary fighting back one of her own, in spite of the mood this situation had put her in.

“We’ll talk to him,” Mary added, “See if we can’t convince him there’s enough time in the day that his sleep doesn’t have to suffer.”

“Well, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to extend the free reading period by a few minutes,” Ms. Ward offered, glancing between both of them warmly.

“I think that sounds like a fantastic idea,” John beamed, “In the meantime, we’ll keep workin’ on him.” With that, they stood to exchange goodbyes and Mary and John exited into the hallway to collect Dean. The three of them walked back to the impala in silence, each in a different state of contemplation. For her part, Mary was struggling to find a satisfactory way to address her frustrations with either the circumstances that had led to the conference or John’s apparent smugness for so smoothly lying their way out of it. It didn’t help that she was already on edge about nearly all aspects of  the hunt they were about to embark on.

Initially, she had been hopeful when she’d come upon what had held promise to be demonic activity in Nebraska. There had been reports of slaughtered livestock, and people, some of them quite possibly virgins, disappearing at regular intervals. The weather disturbances that she had come to expect after intense scrutiny of past demon sightings were absent, but both John and Bobby had been willing to dig deeper on the off chance that they had finally stumbled upon something lower level that they could use to learn more about what they were up against. Unfortunately, that chance had  withered on the vine and with a quickness. The partially eaten remains of the missing and some others, long dead, had turned up not far from a local graveyard, at which point all of them were certain it was ghouls and not demons at work. After that, Bobby had managed to bench himself with an injury sustained while taking down a wraith, and with Rufus out of town John had been left with no choice but to try and recruit her into partnering up.

In any other circumstance, Mary would have turned him down flat, told him to wait until he had more willing backup. It wasn’t so much that she refused to ever again actively participate in the life; she had taken down a ghost here or a Rugaru there, provided it was close by and none of the others were around in strong enough numbers to do it themselves. But this was farther away than she had ever been from her boys since the fire, and, the occasional hunting trip aside, she had little interest in taking down anything that wasn’t the thing that had threatened her family. That said, she felt guilty stumbling onto a case and then letting it lie at others’ expense. So, reluctantly, and with multiple assurances from Bobby that he could handle watching the boys, Mary had agreed to go out on the road. This of course, was before Dean had brought home a note requesting their presence after school.

By the time they were about halfway to the salvage yard, she still hadn’t thought of anything short of a lecture she wasn’t sure her son deserved or some variation of the verbal sparring match she’d been hoping to avoid with her husband before they took off.

“Am I in trouble?” Dean asked finally. She and John briefly caught one another’s gaze, and Mary’s let out an inaudible sigh before twisting to face her child.

“No, sweetheart,” she reassured.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he insisted.

“We know, kiddo,” John said, “It-- It’s my fault for keepin’ you up with all the monster talk.”

“I’m not scared,” Dean argued.

“I know, champ, I know. I’ve just been keepin’ you up too late, tellin’ you stories and lettin’ you look at Uncle Bobby’s books way past your bedtime. I gotta get better about you gettin’ your rest.”

“So… I can’t learn about the monsters anymore?”

“Well, I didn’t say--”

“How about we talk about that after Dad and I get back?” Mary interrupted, attempting a reassuring smile.

“O.K.,” Dean mumbled, still appearing somewhat tense. Biting her lip, she turned back to face front, shoulders slumping just a touch as they continued speeding toward the Salvage.

When they pulled up beside Bobby’s front porch, Sam toddled out to meet them, his babysitter following a good handful of paces behind with an obvious limp.

“Ma!!” the boy cried as Mary climbed out of the car and crouched to embrace him.

“Hey there Sammy!” John exclaimed rising from the driver’s side and resting his elbows on the roof of the vehicle, “You bein’ good for your Uncle Bobby?” Sam laughed and shook his head, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Eh, wasn’t so bad” Bobby shrugged, “He’s only gotten into the hard stuff twice, and nothing top shelf. I think he was savin’ the expensive hooch for Dean.”

“Cute,” Mary shot back, “Bobby, are you sure you’re good to watch them for the weekend? Maybe I should--”

“Come on Mary,” Bobby broke in, “It’s a damned--”

“Language.”

“It’s a _danged_ sprain. I might not be able to go on a hunt, but I sure as-- heck can manage this. If anything havin’ both of ‘em’ll make things easier. Nobody wrangles Sam the great and terrible like Dean here. Right kid?” By now Dean had made his way out of the backseat, coming to stand beside her and playfully fidget at his brother. Upon hearing his name, he glanced up and offered the man a wan smile.

“You two better get on the road,” Bobby pressed, “Couple a ghouls ain’t gonna ease up on snackin’ just cuz you hit traffic.” Mary nodded at the hunter and gave her youngest child a tight hug and a kiss on the top of his head before releasing him to totter around the front of the car toward his father. When she turned her attention to her eldest, the boy threw his arms around her neck and nuzzled into her shoulder.

“I love you, Dean,” she said gently.

“Be careful mom,” he advised, barely above a whisper, “And don’t get mad at dad. If you do, and things get bad, Cas’ll help, but try not to, OK?”

“Dean,” she started, more than a little puzzled and saddened by his words, “Sweetheart, me and your dad are going to be fine. And what do you mean about Cas?”

“What I said,” he replied, “He’ll help, cuz I asked him to.”

“But when did--”

“We really should get going,” John contended, setting Sam down beside them.

“Love you mom,” Dean concluded, pecking her on the cheek and releasing her to face his father before she could question him any further.

“You mind your Uncle Bobby,” John said, resting a hand on the boy’s head, “Do whatever he says and help him look after your brother, you hear?”

“Yes sir,” he agreed.

“Atta boy,” he smiled, ruffling Dean’s hair before shuffling he and his brother toward the house. Mary’s eyes lingered upon her son as she wrestled with the urge to interrogate him about his latest angelic conversation, but after a few moments she pursed her lips resolutely and stood up to join her husband in returning to the car.

“Bobby?” she called, once she and John had resettled on the impala’s front bench seat.

“Yeah?” he returned, hobbling away from the two boys waiting on the porch steps to lean toward the open passenger window.

“Anything happens to my kids while I’m gone,” she warned politely, “and you’ll _wish_ a ghoul got to you.”

“Understood.” John barked out a laugh and began steering them out of the yard, onto the road, and away from two of the things that mattered most to her.

They weren’t even twenty minutes out when her husband cleared his throat in the way he often did when trying to dredge up conversation from a tense silence.

“About Dean,” he attempted, “And the, uh, monster talk—”

“You wanna do this now?” she cut in warily.

“Good a time as any,” he reasoned, “It’s a long drive and I don’t want this hanging over us the whole time.”

“I’m not sure this is something we can hash out on a road trip, John.

“Can’t hurt to try. Listen, I know I screwed up, lettin’ him stay awake to look at that stuff, and I know you don’t like it—”

“That’s putting it about as mildly as you can.”

“But he was curious and he needs to know about it, all of it. For his own good.”

“For his own good? John, he’s just a boy. He doesn’t need to learn about Vetalas and Shapeshifters, he needs to go to school and be a child.”

“And for the most part that’s what he’s doing. Hell, it wasn’t a lie that he’s smart as whip and likes to learn, but it can’t just be the normal stuff. I’m not gonna let him be unprepared and in the dark about the things out there, things I’ve seen tear through folks who don’t know better.”

“I don’t want him to have to worry about any of that. Him or Sam. I don’t want any of that to touch them if I can help it.

“Well it’s a little late for that isn’t it?” Mary huffed out a bitter cough and bowed her head.

“Are you ever going to stop being mad at me?” she asked quietly.

“Mary that’s,” he stammered, “...That’s not why I’m doing this, any of it. This isn’t about punishing you and I never meant for you to think that. I’ve put myself in your place over and over and much as I’d like, I can’t say for sure how it would’ve shaken out if it was you that I’d lost and a damn demon wearing my folks. Yeah, maybe I jumped into all this mad and maybe a little more than half crazy, but end of the day? It’s always been about protecting us.”

“I know that,” Mary replied softly, glancing up at him.

“And I know more than anything that you want the same thing. I know you’ve been tracking every last trace of that son of a bitch that came into Sam’s room, and I’m with you. Any whiff of him you get, I’m behind you whatever you need.” Mary bit her lip and let her eyes fall to her lap. She had been researching for any scrap of information that stank of the yellow-eyed monster she had bargained with, and had even managed to find incidents eerily similar to the fire that had taken their home, with most families coming out far less fortunate than they had.  But in each instance, the demon seemed to be there and gone without a trace beyond the destruction it almost invariably left in its wake. There hadn’t been a related incident since early 1984, and she was beginning to worry the trail would remain cold until whatever looming repercussions of his visit finally engulfed them.

“We’re gonna find it, Mare,” John reassured, “And between you, me, Bobby, and Rufus, we’re gonna take it’s head off.”

“I’m not sure that’ll do it,” Mary chuckled humorlessly.

“Whatever it takes then,” he reasoned, “... But, you gotta know that even if-- When we end this thing, that won’t take all the other monsters out of the world. Every time I go out on the road I’m hoping to bring the numbers down that much more, but I’m not stupid. This monster thing, it’s not going away anytime soon.”

“You don’t think I know that too? I’ve been at this since I could handle a shotgun. I don’t want that for the kids.”

“I don’t either, damnit. And yeah, once they’re outta the demon’s crosshairs, it’ll be better, maybe even safer. But I’ll be damned if they’re not as ready as possible for everything else. Even if they turn their backs on all of it, they’re never gonna be regular civilians, not really. So between what gets done out here and what I’m trying teach back home, I want the name Winchester to put the fear of god into anything fool enough to come after us and ours, no matter where we end up down the line.” He let out a long heavy breath, and Mary regarded him silently for a handful of seconds before turning an unfocused gaze to the road. Beneath his macho bluster and the fear that helped fuel it, there were truths that she hated but couldn’t argue with, and she hated that even more.

“So,” John resumed, “We doin’ the silent thing or is music alright?”

“Music sounds good,” she replied, shaking herself. Tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, she leaned forward to pop open the glove compartment and rifle through the small collection of tapes inside.

“Not that one,” John interjected lightly when she laid a hand on Abbey Road. She shot him a dubious glance, uncertain of how he could have any idea of what she was choosing with his eyes so firmly fixed upon the highway.

“What’s wrong with the Beatles?” she asked, tilting her head in challenge.

“Nothin’” he shrugged, still staring straight ahead, “Just not what I’m lookin’ for. And you know the house rules: Driver picks the music, shotgun, uh…” He fumbled for a better answer than the conclusion she’d heard him proclaim to past friends and even Bobby.

“Hmm?” she pressed, raising an eyebrow.

“Shotgun looks downright stunning?” he tried weakly

“Smooth,” she sighed sarcastically, “Definitely not as catchy though.”

“And yet, still undeniably true.” Rolling her eyes, she snatched up a cassette marked with familiar, blocky handwriting, eliciting a smile from the author of its tracklist as she slid the tape into the player to fill the car with the beginnings of a long line of Zepp songs.

“You said you’d been at this since you could hold a shotgun” John mused, “Exactly how old was that?”

“John Winchester, you put a weapon in my baby’s hands and I’ll shoot you my damn self,” she said. John’s smile cracked into a full on grin and before long, they were able to shift into easier conversation, some about the case, some not. Eventually, in spite of everything she was facing down both on the hunt and at home, some of Mary’s tensions relented.

They arrived in Halsey just before ten at night and decided to hunker down in a motel for the night, leaving their investigations for the morning. It was her first night away from her children since Sam was born, and so while she was more than tired enough, she found herself chasing sleep with limited success. When John curled his arm around her and drew her close after several hours of intermittent wakefulness, she wondered if, even after all the trips he’d gone on, he too found it difficult to be away.

The next day, they paid a visit to the Blaine County Sheriff’s department and coroner to get a better grasp of what they were dealing with. There were five bodies in all, not including that of a girl still listed as missing and a collection of decomposing limbs identified as belonging to a series of recently disturbed graves from the town’s cemetery. Local law enforcement had assumed the upset resting places had been the work of robbers, desperate folk looking for buried treasure to see them through tough times. But the disappearances and murders had altered that theory significantly, and  bite marks on what was left of the victims practically screamed ghoul, not human.

“So,” the coroner, a thin, graying man said as they turned to leave, “You think we’re dealing with some kind of psychopath? That why FBI is involved?”

“Can’t really speak to it,” John intoned officiously, “But I can tell ya whoever did this ain’t your run of the mill killer.”

“Best of luck to you then,” he replied, “Agents—? Sorry, I’m awful with names.”

“Weary and Pilgrim.”

“Right. Take care.” They each nodded to one another and Mary and John left the dank basement to return to the crisp autumn air and the structure’s narrow parking lot.

“Definitely a ghoul then?” John asked climbed back into the impala.

“Maybe a couple,” Mary said, “And bad ones. Considering the graves stopped getting torn up weeks ago, I’d say they’ve got a taste for living flesh.”

“No kidding. You think that girl, the one who’s still missing—”

“Probably not. The least we can do is try bring her home in a better state than the rest.” John’s expression turned solemn.

“... Yeah, you’re probably right,” he agreed, “Hey, where did the sheriff say most of them turned up? Anywhere near the cemetery?”

“One of them,” she explained, “But the others were closer to town, just inside the campgrounds on the outskirts.”

“Lotta people out there this time of year?” he queried.

“He said some, for the most part riding up in campers. There’s a couple of old cabins further back but almost all of them are too run down to stay in.”

“Further back as in out of the way? Good place to hunker down and eat folks?”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“Alright. We waitin’ until nightfall or…?”

“Maybe dusk? Leave a little light but give regular people a chance to clear out, get off the trails and get home?”

“Sounds good.” John started up the car but paused in pulling out of the lot to give her a sidelong glance.

“You, uh, hungry at all?” he asked warily.

“I—” she began haltingly, “Yeah, I could eat.”

“Me too,” he returned, and she frowned, more at herself than anything else. They headed up Main Street and stopped at a bar, idly chatting over chicken fried steak, and carefully ignoring the gravity of being so accustomed or settled into their work that they could take in a meal after what they’d seen at the coroner’s office.

Once they’d finished eating, they headed back to their motel room to change and arm themselves with weapons ill fitting for government agents but more than appropriate for taking out flesh eating monsters. They also took a moment to call Sioux Falls and check in, allowing Bobby to reassure them that both children were still alive and in possession of all their limbs, a fact at least partially confirmed by the dual squeals of laughter they could hear in the background.

About an hour before sunset, they got back in the car and made their way to the Bessey campgrounds. Close to the entrance, they could make out a scattering of RVs and tents, but the deeper they got into the woods, the fewer people they encountered. It was likely fair to say that the murders had even local tourism flagging.

When the cabins came into view, John parked the impala at the side of the winding dirt path and they continued on foot. The sheriff had been underselling it when he said that most of the structures had seen better days. As it stood, nearly all of them were caving in on themselves, save for the two that were set farthest from the trail.

“Divide and conquer?” John offered, hefting the shotgun he’d pulled from the trunk of the car.

“Just the perimeter,” she advised, “Don’t set foot inside on your own, shout as loud as you can if—”

“Anything tries to take a bite outta me?” he supplied.

“Exactly, smartass.” He winked and started toward the left side of the clearing. Drawing the machete she’d sheathed at her hip, Mary worked her way to the opposite end, shoulders tensed, eyes and ears straining for any sign of movement or the snap of a twig. The cabin on her half of the camp was smaller than the other remaining building, and it didn’t take more than a quick once over to see that it hadn’t been used in quite some time. There were piles of rotting, damp leaves collected before its entrance, and a layer of undisturbed grime on just about every visible surface. If the ghouls had taken up in this area at all, this was most certainly not the spot they’d chosen.

In the spirit of being thorough, she crept toward the back of the quarters, carefully peering into the windows for anything or anyone. It wasn’t until she was rounding toward the front of the shack that she felt the telltale tingle of eyes upon her, but there was a gun in her back before she could turn to do anything about it.

“That’s a pretty big knife you got there,” a female voice cooed, “Hows about you drop it before either of us gets hurt?” Briefly squeezing her eyes shut and clenching her jaw, Mary gave a final grip of the machete’s hilt and then did as she was told.


	6. Somethin' Else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the hunt in Nebraska takes a few unexpected turns, trouble arises at Singer's Salvage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly on time this week! Yay!  
> Also, spoiler-ish trigger warnings in the end notes.

**SEPTEMBER 1986**

 

“You heard me, boy!” Uncle Bobby called, “Put whatever you’re fiddlin’ with down and come gimme a hand.” Reluctantly, Dean set aside the weathered journal he had been cradling in his lap, hopped off the couch and joined the hunter-turned-babysitter in the kitchen. The night before, they had killed off the last of the TV dinners and the one frozen kid’s meal Mary had stashed away for Sam, and Uncle Bobby had decided to make a go at something homecooked meal, grumbling about a balanced diet when Dean had suggested pizza. Ultimately, he had settled on a few packages of salisbury steak, macaroni and cheese, and broccoli that Dean had only been allowed a couple seconds of groaning over.

“Pull up a chair and give that a stir,” the bearded man said, indicating a faintly bubbling pot of Kraft on the range’s front right burner before returning his focus to the vegetable he was chopping. Nodding, Dean grabbed a chair from the nearby table and pushed it toward the oven.

“Mind your feet,” his elder cautioned as he climbed onto its cushioned seat, “Stove’s on for the rest of the grub.”

  
“Mkay,” Dean said, picking up a wooden spoon on the counter and cautiously churning at the mixture of powdered cheese and noodles.

“You’re brother still knocked out upstairs?” Uncle Bobby asked, gathering the fruits of his labor and dumping them into a pan already shallowly filled with water.

“Uh huh.”

“Good. How’s that macaroni looking?”

“OK. Mom likes to add real cheese too sometimes.”

“Everyone’s a critic. Your mom know you’re reading Rufus’s notes on Skinwalkers?” Dean’s eyes shot up from the contents of the pot and landed upon Uncle Bobby’s questioning gaze. He had only meant to peek, just a little, and even when that small glimpse had turned into a full on reading, he had figured he was safe enough in flipping through the pages with his adult supervision more than occupied with getting everyone fed.

“Relax kid,” he chuckled after a moment, placing a lid on the pan and setting it on the left-hand burner, “I’m not gonna snitch to your Mom. Not like it’s nothin’ your dad hasn’t shown you already.”

“She doesn’t like that either,” Dean mumbled, turning his attention back to stirring.

“I’d noticed,” Uncle Bobby replied, “And I don’t blame her, young boy looking at real live nightmare fuel.” Dean shrugged, jabbing at a patch of unmixed cheese dust.

“Are… Are you, ya know, OK about it?” his adoptive uncle questioned tentatively. Dean pressed his lips together, trying to think of an answer that wouldn’t cause any trouble for either himself or his father. It had scared him a lot at first, and even now traces of lasting unease would sometimes take hold when his curiosity and desire to better understand led him to seek out further study of the all but forbidden information. But repeated explanations and exposure to the scary stories, along with Castiel’s initially confusing promises that most monsters simply wouldn’t be able to get at him, had dulled some of his worry. These days the nightmares didn’t come as much, though that too might have been thanks to the grumpy boy that sometimes showed up in his dreams, the one that had asked him not to talk too much about him so the grownups wouldn’t worry, and that kept telling him he wasn’t really a boy at all.

‘You still with me?” Uncle Bobby coaxed.

‘I’m not afraid,” Dean answered finally, “Not really.”

“Now that ain’t true” he argued, “ He-Heck, sometimes even I am. You’d be a fool not to be. The stuff in those books, it ain’t pretty, even for us old folks.”

“You’re not old.”

“Compared to you, I’m ancient, and don’t change the subject. You ain’t gotta read about that stuff if you don’t want to. Between your Mom and Dad, Rufus, and me when this bum leg heals, we got the monster stuff covered.”

Cas too, Dean thought.

“I know,” he agreed, “But I gotta know stuff too, so I can help, just in case.”

“Yeah, I know what your Dad thinks,” Uncle Bobby countered, “And I don’t doubt you’re smart enough to know he might be right but--” A knock at the door cut him off and he frowned, twisting in the direction of the interruption.

“Better not be that cuss Rufus,” he grumbled, wiping his hands on his pants, “Wasn’t expecting him back for another day or two and I sure as hell ain’t feedin’ his ass--” Dean suppressed a giggle as his caretaker caught himself with a shake of his head.

“Let’s keep that little slip between me and you too, huh?” he proposed, “Mutually assured destruction and all that.” Dean didn’t all the way understand that last part but he nodded all the same, mouth pinching together contemplatively the way it often did when Castiel said something he couldn’t quite grasp.

“It’s a deal then,” the man affirmed, “Keep stirring that for another minute and then shut it off, hear? You, uh, you know how long that is or…?

  
“Sixty seconds,” Dean said without skipping a beat.

“Knew you had smarts.” With that, Uncle Bobby left the room to see to the front door, leaving Dean to count Mississippi’s.

“Sorry, but we’re closed,” he heard the man rumble. There was a response, but it was too far away, quiet, or both for Dean to make out.

“Nah, don’t have any spare mechanics on staff,” he went on, “And like I said we’re closed so--” Another pause. At this point, Dean had made it all the way up to sixty, and after switching off the burner beneath the pot, he jumped down from the chair and slowly stole back out of the kitchen. When he was nearly halfway across the living room, he was able to peer around its entryway and into the hall where Uncle Bobby stood just inside the front door, blocking whoever it was that stood on the porch.

“How ‘bout this?” he said, annoyance edging into his tone, “You walk on back to your car and I’ll call triple A for ya? Just tell me--” He stopped short again, and this time his entire body visibly stiffened.

“Lady,” he resumed slowly, “You don’t wanna do this.”

“Shut up!” a higher pitched voice commanded, “Hands up! Turn around!”

“Easy,” Uncle Bobby urged, just shy of a growl as he raised both his arms up

“I said turn around!” Bobby slowly complied, eyes widening as they landed upon Dean.

  
_“Go”_ the man mouthed at him, gaze darting upward, _“Run.”_ Dean stood rooted to the spot, either fixated or paralyzed by a growing dread.

“Alright kid,” he tried again, out loud, “I think you’d better RUN along and get your sorry HIDE outta--” His sentence came to another, more abrupt halt as a series of sudden movements behind him rocked his head forward and brought him to his knees. When he began slumping toward the ground, Dean all at once found his feet and scurried back toward the kitchen, gaze darting about frantically. He wasn’t sure what it was that had hurt Uncle Bobby, if it was a monster or something else, but he knew for sure that it was something bad and he needed to get away from it, to hide and--

 _‘Help him look after your brother.’_ His father’s words echoed in his thoughts, stilling him once again.

He had to get to Sammy, to protect him, but in order to get upstairs he would have to pass whatever it was that he could hear stepping over the threshold of the front door and into the house. He had read about monsters, been made to learn about various ways of getting rid of them, but he didn’t know how to actually fight them, not really, and he couldn’t even be sure of what he was up against. There were a lot of things out there that sounded like people.

“Hello?” the same voice called out, less angry than it had been before but still unfriendly. The creak of light, careful footfalls sounded closer, maybe in the living room, and Dean’s breath began to hitch anxiously. What had the books said? Sharp things, and… Fire. More often than not fire could hurt them. But the only fire was from the stove and he had no clear idea how to effectively harness it or anything close to it beyond… His eyes at last fell to the steaming macaroni resting on top of the oven. Trying his hardest to be both as quick and quiet as possible, he grabbed a dishtowel, climbed back onto the chair he had used as a stool and wrapped the cloth around the pot’s handle with both hands. Arm muscles straining, he hopped back to the floor and tiptoed to the edge of the door, pressing himself against the wall as tightly as he could manage.

After nearly another minute, the toe of a narrow, dingy boot came into Dean’s periphery and with a nervous swallow he sprang from his hiding place, flinging the contents of the pot upward at the intruder with all his available strength. The thing, which looked like a young woman, let out an ear piercing scream and staggered back, dropping something heavy and metal as they clawed at their cheese and noodles scalding their face. Without any further thought, Dean snatched up the abandoned item and ran past the shrieking thing to the stairs.

He bounded up steps as quickly as his legs would carry, and stumbled into the hallway at the top of the landing, nearly flinging himself into the guest room when he reached it. With a heavy exhale, he shoved the door shut and twisted its lock closed. It wasn’t until he had backed deeper into the room and collapsed against the bed where his brother still slept that he realized what he had taken from the invader, and he wasn’t sure if he felt better off, or somehow more afraid.

 

* * *

 

“Good girl,” the voice said, as Mary’s machete thudded to the ground, “Now hands up, nice and easy. Much as I want to blow your brains out, I don’t want to go and create any commotion before I have to just because you decided to try something funny.” Mary began raising her arms in surrender, thoughts racing between what to do about the double barrel pressed between her shoulder blades and whether or not her husband was facing a similar dilemma elsewhere. By the time her hands were level with her head, she’d decided to see if the hesitancy in shooting her couldn’t be shifted to actual distraction.

“Using a shotgun to kill your prey,” she began, forcing her voice steady, “Isn’t that a hassle? I mean, it can’t be easy having to dig buckshot out of dinner.”

“What?” the voice spat back, “Wait, you think I’m-- Alright, turn around, slowly, and keep those hands up.” Mary made a gradual about-face, the business end of the gun sliding along her shoulder and coming to rest against her chest as she shuffled toward the owner of the voice. They appeared to be a woman several inches shorter than her and about her age, with dark hair and a determined set to her mouth, in spite of the confusion now plain on her face.

“What’s the matter?” Mary asked wryly, “Do I have something on my face?” She usually left the quips to John but something about nearly being shot and the woman’s obvious uncertainty had her feeling punchy. Something was off here and she needed to play into it for all it was worth, or at least until she had a better plan than weak verbal jabs.

“Hell,” the woman muttered, “You don’t look like any of them.”

“Excuse me?” Mary returned, all at once equally perplexed.

“Taking the shape of the last person they ate,” the woman explained, “That’s how it usually works, right? But you don’t look anything like, well anyone. Not even the one still missing,”

“Hang on, you think… You think I’m the ghoul?”

“Thought. It’s looking less and less likely though. If I take this gun off of you, are you gonna grab up that blade and make me regret it?”

“You back off a little and keep that thing pointed at the ground, I’d say we’ve got a deal.” After a beat of consideration, the woman nodded, took a few quick strides backward, allowing the barrels of her weapon to lower. Eyes still fixed on the stranger, Mary knelt and collected her fallen machete, feeling that much more at ease with it back in her hands.

“So, safe to say you’re a hunter?” the woman asked, still gazing at her warily.

“Sometimes,” Mary affirmed, sheathing the blade

“Should’ve figured there’d be some out of towners,” she reasoned, “All those disappearances were bound to make more than just local news.”

  
“You said ‘us.’ There’s more than just you?”

“Of course. You’d be a damn fool to come out here after a couple of ghouls on your own, no offense.”

“I didn’t--” A muffled cry cut her off, followed by the sound of something crashing through fallen leaves.

“John,” Mary breathed, at the same time the other woman seemed to huff out a name of her own. They took off running in the direction of the sound and soon came upon two men tussling on the ground near the second remaining cabin, John’s shotgun and what appeared to be a bowie knife discarded in favor of fists.

“John!” Mary called out, trying to pitch her voice low enough to draw only the attention the men before her, “Stop it! It’s not him.”

“William Anthony Harvelle, same goes double for you,” the woman added. The men froze, fists poised for a further exchange of blows. After briefly regarding each other and the women who had addressed them, they rose to their feet and collected themselves.

“Anyone care to explain what in the hell is going on?” the man who wasn’t John asked.

“Other hunters, Bill,” the woman clarified, “I told you we should’ve checked around before diving into this one. It’s not like there’s a big sign on Nebraska saying we got things covered down here.”

“Well darlin’,” he sighed, smiling faintly, “Consider the gut punches I just took a decent enough I told you so.” Bill turned back to John and held out a hand.

“William Harvelle,” he said, “Though, when I’m not in trouble Bill works just fine. The gorgeous young woman giving me the business is my wife, Ellen.” Ellen rolled her eyes before regarding both John and Mary with a bob of her head.

“John Winchester,” he supplied, grasping Bill’s hand tightly, “And uh, I’m usually in just as much trouble with my wife Mary over there.

“Wait, I’ve heard of a Winchester,” Bill mused, “Sometimes works with Rufus Turner and that cuss Singer?”

“Yeah, actually--”

“As much as I’d love to make friends,” Mary broke in, “Now that we aren’t trying to kill each other, we need to get back to it.”

“She’s right,” Ellen agreed, “Especially now that you two scrabblin’ around in the dirt may have gotten somebody’s attention. Either of you get a chance to see if this cabin’s as much a dead end as the other one?”

“I think this is the one,” John said, “I didn’t get a look inside but there’s a new lock on the front door.”

“Only got a peek through the window before we started dukin’ it out,” Bill continued, “But it definitely looks better than it should if it were abandoned.”

“Alright,” Mary said, drawing the machete once more “John and Ellen should take point since they’ve got the shotguns. Bill and I will bring up the rear, and provided nothing comes at us on entry, we’ll sweep this place top to bottom.” The rest of the group nodded their assent, and they all quickly  made their way to the front porch of the cabin. When they came to the door, Bill hunched over its lock, removing a small parcel from inside his jacket and pulling a pair of slim metal tools from it. As he worked at getting them inside and John hovered beside him to observe the technique, Ellen turned to Mary.

“Sorry,” she said, “I mean, about the whole gun in your back thing. When I saw you creeping around, I thought we’d been made.”

“No harm done,” Mary reassured, “If anything, this is an improvement. We stand a better chance of making it out with the four of us, and the sooner this gets done, the sooner I can get back to my boys.”

  
“I understand,” Ellen replied, expression softening, “We’ve got a girl at home. It’s not far from here, but she’s just a baby and I’m not sure how much more I can stand of leaving her with Bill’s Aunt.”

“I know the feeling.” Mary offered her a tight-lipped smile. While she refused to allow herself even a fleeting moment of relaxation in the face of what they were walking into, it was reassuring to know that at least one half of their new companions was on the same page as her, and not likely one of the more reckless types often found in their line of work.

“Got it,” Bill declared, stepping back from his handiwork triumphantly.

“Let’s do this,” John said, raising his weapon. Ellen took her place beside him, and once Mary and Bill had fallen into their agreed upon positions, she threw open the door. The four of them flooded into the cabin, each fanning out into opposite directions around it’s broad living room.

“I think we’re all clear in this room,” Ellen said, eyes sweeping about cautiously.

“Looks like it,” Bill agreed, still poised for attack as he sidled up to her.

“OK,” John said, “You two take this floor. I saw a cellar door out back, so once we find our way down, we’ll cover that. Holler if anything goes sideways.” The couples split up without another word, Bill and Ellen heading into a hallway off of the living room’s left side, and Mary following John into a kitchen to the right. Before long, they found a partially opened door that revealed a set of wooden stairs leading down. While Mary dug for the penlight in her coat pocket, she heard John open up the refrigerator behind her and huff out a surprised sound.

“What?” she asked, twisting to look back at him.

“Do ghouls usually save stuff for later?” he queried, still gazing into the open ice chest. Mary frowned and walked away from the stairs, peering over her husband’s shoulder. Sure enough, the shelves were full of cling-wrapped parts and organs, even a few hefty pieces of bone.  

“No,” she answered finally, “Most of the time, they like to eat their victims alive. This is…” She shook her head, frown deepening.

“You think we got this one wrong?” he questioned. She ran over the gruesome memories of the remains she had examined earlier in the day. There hadn’t been much left of the victims and there was no way to tell at which stage of life or death the eating had begun, but between the bite marks and grave robberies she had been so certain it was ghouls.

A sudden, low groan from below interrupted her musings and had them both whirling back toward the door to the cellar.

“We oughtta get on with this,” John said, closing the fridge and raising his gun.

“Sure,” Mary agreed, “But like you said, what if I’m off about what we're dealing with?”

“Well,” John returned, “Shotgun should at least put a dent in whatever it is, and the machete’ll sure help.

“John--”

“And I have my lighter on me. Worse comes to worse, fire is always a good answer.” He started toward the stairs before she could argue any further, and with an exasperated sigh she followed after him, raising the penlight to cast its beam just over his shoulder.

The steps were old, and creakier than she liked, squealing with nearly every move they made in spite of their caution. When they reached the lower floor, they found themselves in a basement that stank of a too-familiar, coppery scent. A door with a padlock was set into its far left side and at the opposite end, a rack of clean, sharp tools hung above a utility sink. Not far from the center of the room sat a stainless steel table, its surface scuffed and dull, but empty.

As Mary continued to pass the light over the darkened enclosure, something behind the stairs briefly glinted back at her. When she focused her attention and the beam upon the space between the wooden slats, she found that the source of the momentary flash. It was a chain, bolted to the wall, and ending in a shackle currently clasped around a limp, pale ankle. Nudging John, she rounded the steps and found herself facing the still form of a young woman she recognized from a missing poster on the Blaine County P.D.’s bulletin board.  Setting down her machete, she reached out toward the girl and laid her first two fingers against her neck.

“Anything?” John said from behind her.  
“It’s weak,” Mary replied, lowering her hand, and turning back to him, “Barely there at all. We’ve gotta get her out of here.” As if in response, there was a shout from upstairs, followed by a heavy crash.

“Shit,” John muttered, stepping back to glance between the door to the kitchen and the unconscious female beside his wife.

“Go!” Mary urged, “Go help them. I’ll get her out.” Biting his lip, John nodded, cocked the shotgun and started up the stairs, leaving Mary to cast about for something to remove the cuff from around the girl’s foot. About the same time her eyes landed on a pair of bolt cutters on the tool rack, someone came crashing back down the steps and rolled to a stop in a heap on the basement’s cement landing. When she realized it was John, she rushed from one prone form to another, kneeling by her fallen husband’s side and shaking him roughly. Her relief at the sight of the subtle rise and fall of the man’s chest was short lived, as something crashed into her left side from above, slamming her head into the ground and plunging her into blackness.

 

* * *

 

Castiel had already almost stepped in once, in the moments when a gun had been pressed to Mary’s back. But in that instant of near intervention, an urgent question had pressed itself to the forefront of his mind: how? Was he truly going to retrieve his vessel, perhaps drawing demonic attention not only to himself, but to those he was tasked with guarding? Did their immediate need for protection override the value of the cover of anonymity that had shielded them thus far? Luckily, this quandary had shifted to a forgone conclusion when the two hunters had proven themselves friends and joined forces with the his charges. Unfortunately, this latest development had yet again given rise to a need for an answer.

As it stood, John was unconscious and shackled beneath the stairway of the dwelling they had infiltrated, while Mary was bound beside him, more dazed than completely senseless, but just as immobilized for the time being. Several feet away, the woman who had been similarly imprisoned lay on what appeared to be a surgical table, whilst the human male who had placed her there tended to the minor wounds of the beast that had subdued both the Winchester and their new companions on the upper floor. A second creature waited in padlock room that adjoined this lower level, roused by the commotion caused by its counterpart and their latest prey.

Castiel’s options were dreadfully limited here. His true form was of no use if he truly meant to protect the hunters and the innocent they had meant to save, and even if he decided to involve Jimmy for the purposes of the defense he intended to mount,there was a good chance he did not possess the time it would take to collect him. He could of course attempt to acquire a temporary vessel, one that would suffer, even burn out should he stay too long, but that would still require consent, something he was certain none of the hunters would so readily give. Which left the girl. She was barely alive and fading fast from this plane of existence; perhaps she would be receptive to his needs, if only for a brief enough time to be of use.

As he prepared himself to make contact, a desperate plea flashed across his thoughts.

_“Cas! What do I do? I don’t know what to do!”_

Dean.

Outside of nightmares, he had never heard the boy so afraid, and something about this felt more pressing, more palpable somehow. And yet, he couldn’t rush back to him now, not when things had taken such a desperate turn for his parents. He needed help.

Pulling his focus away from all that lay before him and the child’s impassioned prayers, Castiel reached out through the private channels he and his brother had established before they had parted ways years ago, letting out a high pitched keening hoped to be the angelic equivalent of how his sibling had asked to be contacted. After a moment that seemed to stretch far longer than it actually was, Gabriel was at his side.

“What in the shit was that?” he exclaimed, clearly exasperated.

“You said to whistle,” Castiel explained, “That was merely an approximation but--”

“Yeah, never do that again,” he warned, “Regular, boring, Cas calls from now on, capiche?”

“I-- My apologies, but things have taken a turn for the dire.”

“Yeah, I can see that. So what’s the big deal? Handle it already.”

“It isn’t just here. Dean is also in trouble.”

“Who?”

“The eldest Winchester child.”

“Right, son number one’s vessel.”

“He called out to me. There is something wrong.”

“Seriously? That’s why you pushed the panic button? He probably just a bad dream or someone tried to make him eat broccoli. And here I was thinking after all this time you had this gig down pat.”

“Listen to me, it’s more than that. But I can’t very well leave his parents to this. Please, help me. If there isn’t anything wrong, I will bear whatever consequences you see fit for needlessly disturbing you, but wouldn’t you rather it be nothing than some form of demonic assault? After all the children’s protection is paramount in this arrangement.”

“Jeez, OK, OK. Man, how have you not lightened up yet.”

“Gabriel--”

“Hey, I got it. Don’t get pushy, _little_ bro. You take care of this mess and I’ll go play nurse maid. Oh, and those consequences? You better believe they’re gonna suck if you’re wrong about this.”

“Yes, I understand suck.”

“Yikes.” With that Gabriel departed and Castiel once more readied himself to talk an innocent into all but certain oblivion.

 

* * *

 

Dean stared down at the gun in his lap, occasionally jumping when a muffled shout or crash would sound from whatever it was that still lurked on the first floor. He had, of course, seen guns before, not just in movies but in small, real-life glimpses when his family prepared for hunts. That said, all he knew of them was that they hurt things, and that no less than four adults had made it clear he wasn’t allowed anywhere near one.

But he was near one, had snatched it up from the thing that had entered the house without even thinking twice, and now he was trapped upstairs, holding the heavy, dangerous piece of metal, and uncertain if he was more afraid of it or the thing that had brought it there.

He closed his eyes, wishing his parents were home, or that Uncle Bobby were awake, or that Castiel wasn’t far away and could help them like he had before.

 _“Cas!”_ he thought to himself helplessly _, “What do I do? I don’t know what to do!”_

“Wassat?” Sam asked, leaning over him so suddenly that Dean nearly dropped the weapon altogether.

“Sammy!” he cried, fumbling the pistol back into his unsteady grip, “Don’t do that!”

“Sowwy,” Sam said, sitting back heavily on the bed with his lip pushed forward in a telltale pout. Dean’s eyes widened with renewed anxiety. He couldn’t start crying now, not when they were still hidden from the monster.

“It’s ok Sammy, really,” he insisted, plastering a smile across his face, “You just scared me really good.” His brother remained quiet but the uncertainty still lingered about his tiny features, threatening to spill over into tears.

“Hey,” he continued, feigning excitement overtop of his desperation, “Wanna play a game?” Sam’s expression immediately brightened and he nodded enthusiastically.

“OK,” Dean sighed, “It’s like hide and seek, except you have to be extra, extra quiet.”

“You hide too?” his brother asked, sliding off of the mattress and onto the floor beside him.

“Nope,” he replied, “I’m supposed to, uh, be... The lookout! Yeah, that’s why I have the, um, secret weapon— that only I can touch.” He showed Sam the gun but made sure to keep it well out of his reach. The younger boy sucked in a deep breath and stared down at it in awe.

“So,” Dean continued, “you go hide and I’ll make sure nobody finds you. Go on.” Sam giggled and started to crawl under the bed.

“Wait,” he called, stopping the child in his tracks, “The closet, behind all of Uncle Bobby’s coats. That’s the best place.”

“OK,” his brother beamed, tottering over to the closet. Dean followed after him and, once he was securely inside, started to close it behind him.

“Dark!” Sam cried fearfully, placing a tiny hand on Dean’s arm.

“Don’t worry, Sammy,” he said softly, “I won’t shut it all the way. And I won’t let anything get you.” After a moment, the boy relaxed and let go of his hand, settling into the coats as his brother eased the double doors all but closed. He then resumed his seat at the foot of the bed, tentatively holding the weapon in both hands and listening carefully for any sign of the monster.

The crashing had stopped sometime during his conversation with Sam, and for a moment he started to believe that maybe it had simply gone away. But then he heard it call out from somewhere down below.

“Hey!” its voice screeched, “Who the—” It stopped short, much like in the way Uncle Bobby had when the thing had hurt him. Biting his lip, Dean leaned a little closer to the door, craning one ear toward it in the hopes of picking up something in the silence.

A series of not-too-distant thumps--footsteps-- hand him shrinking back toward the bed frame. It was coming up the stairs.

With shaking hands, he reluctantly shifted his grip on the gun, trying to remember how they held it on TV, how he’d seen his father hold it right before he packed it away for a trip. When the steps came into the hallway and began drawing closer, he pointed the pistol at the door and tucked his pointer finger into the loop in the crook between the barrel and handle. A creak sounded just outside of the room and he jumped, reflexively squeezing the trigger.

Several things happened all at once, almost too fast for him to take in.

The recoil shoved Dean back against the wooden footboard and nearly had him striking himself in the face with weapon he had fired. A decent sized hole splintered through the bedroom door and a different voice than the one before shouted from out in the hallway.

“Whoa! Whoa!” it exclaimed, “Cease fire! I come in peace!” Before Dean could recover enough from his shock to work up a response, the door opened and a uniformed man stepped into the room, frowning down at him with his nostrils flared.

“You” the officer said, holding his hand out toward him, “Gimme.” Still dazed, the boy reached up and surrendered the gun.

“How’s about,” the man continued, tucking the weapon somewhere behind his back, “we cool it the kiddie vigilante bit, OK Tex?” Dean nodded, lip suddenly quivering.

“Nope,” he chided, holding up a hand almost defensively, “I don’t do waterworks, so cool it.” He nodded again, sniffing and swiping at his eyes. The officer sighed and knelt beside him.

“Here,” he said, smiling guiltily and holding out lollipop, “Peace offering. I’m sure you’re not supposed to take it from strangers but I figure it’s not so bad coming from me. Anyway, you’ve already broken the rules by dabbling in underage gun possession.” After a moment’s hesitation, Dean took a deep breath and accepted the candy.

“Rad,” the officer said, “Now let’s grab your bro and clean up this mess. Man, I hate it when I’m wrong.”

 

* * *

 

The first thing Mary felt when she awakened was a throbbing on the right side of her face, followed by a lesser discomfort in her joints. She tried to shift but found the movements of both her arms and legs to be largely restricted. Carefully opening her eyes, she allowed her bleary vision to confirm what she had already suspected. She was propped up against the wall just shy of the alcove beneath the stairs, her ankles and wrists bound with heavy cord. At her side, John had taken the girl’s place in the shackles and seemed to be in a far deeper state of unconsciousness than she had been. Blinking away the remaining blurred corners of her perception, she took stock of her surroundings once more.

There was a lamp in the room now, beating back the darkness that had fallen after she had blacked out, and illuminating the stainless steel table and the formerly missing young woman that lay upon it. At the sink, a man moved between a medical bag perched on its edge and a woman with-- No, not quite a woman.

“Rugaru,” she cursed thickly. The man turned, greeting her with an eerily calm expression, and all at once recognition washed over her groggy awareness.

“Th-the coroner?” she sputtered.

“Among other things, yes,” he said, clasping his hands, “I’m glad you’re awake and aware, because I have a few questions for you. Most importantly, are any more of your friends sniffing around?”

“Go to hell,” Mary shot back. Behind him, the creature assumed a far less pleasant smile and took a step forward with a low snarl.

“Now, now,” the man admonished, placing a hand on their arm, “Patience, Christina. After all, look at the bounty these people have brought you.”

“Sorry father,” the Rugaru growled.

“Father?” Mary repeated.

“That’s right,” the man said, his tone matter-of-fact as he strode over to the side of the operating table, “Christina and Marcus--” Something slammed into the padlocked door, which stuttered forward but held fast.

“It seems we’ve worked your brother into quite a state,” the man tsked, “I’m not surprised, with all that ruckus we made.”

“He’s hungry,” the female Rugaru barked, “I’m hungry too.”

“I know, dear,” the man cooed, “And I know it was difficult keeping everyone in one piece. It’ll be just a little while longer now.” She grumbled something inaudible in return and stalked over to the door that lead to her sibling, crouching in the corner beside it and shifting her gaze about the room menacingly. In spite of this, Mary allowed herself an inaudible sigh; from the sound of it, Helen and Bill might still be alive.

Keeping as steady as possible she fumbled for her back left pocket, fingers mercifully landing on the slim folding knife she had clipped to it before they left the motel.

“So what?” she jabbed, hoping her words masked the muffled click of the blade opening, “You’re just one big happy family of monsters?”

“I’m not a fan of that term,” the man scolded, with a wave of his hand, “And, as I’m sure you can see I myself am not a Rugaru.”

“They must get their good looks from their mother then,” she pressed, sawing away at her bindings.

“Yes. Sadly, Myra didn’t survive the transition, couldn’t bear to live with it.”

“Good for her.”

“Yes well, after the turmoil she experienced and how… How I wasn’t able to help her, I made a promise to myself that I would see my children through, should they face a similar hardship.”

“So that makes it OK to kill innocent people. As long as the kids get fed, right?”

“No one gets hurt, not really. As you can see with the young lady here, everything will be quite painless. But even if it wasn’t, there is little that I wouldn’t do for my children.” Gritting her teeth, Mary thought of her own kids, how this family wanted to rob them of both of their parents for their monstrous hunger, and she sawed that much harder at her ties.

“Why not just stick to graveyards?” she asked bitterly, “Or pick them up something already dead at work? At least then you wouldn’t be a murderer.”

“We tried that,” he explained, frowning with distaste at the memory, “I couldn’t risk taking anyone from the morgue and the older corpses were making them sick. They needed fresh meat and they I wasn’t about to diminish their quality of life.”

  
“Quality of life?” she exclaimed, “They’re eating people in the woods! Your son is locked in a-- a cell in the basement.”

“Marcus is still… Adjusting. His sister always was quicker to adapt.”

“Father,” the female Rugaru broke in, “Stop talking to the meat! I’m starving!”

“Right, right, sorry,” he apologized, spinning around to the tool rack, “It’s so rare that I have a chance to talk about this that I’m babbling.” Running his hand along the instruments, he took up a large butcher knife and returned to the girl. If she was still breathing, Mary couldn’t tell, but it wouldn’t matter either way if she couldn’t get herself free.

  
“I’m surprised,” she resumed, “With this setup, I mean. What you showed us in the morgue today didn’t look too clinical.

“I can’t argue with you there,” he returned, scrutiny fixed upon the person he was preparing to carve into, “Those were the results of the ravenous beginnings of the change. In truth, I didn’t have as much of a handle on the situation as I do now. Going forward, things will be managed a bit better, and more closely rationed just in case we hit a dry spell. Although, you and your friends’ visit has made that a far more distant possibility.” He paused to closer examine the young woman’s arm and Mary felt a section of rope give way. This still left the not so small matter of the rope looped tightly about her ankles, but at least her hands were free.

Pitching herself sideways, she leaned into John and began feeling around for his lighter, hoping for all the world that it looked as though she was seeking comfort and not a means to destroy her captors.

“Aw, how cute,” the creature rumbled, briefly drawing Mary’s attention, “He’s not going to be much help though, in making you feel better or fighting. Your man there is out cold thanks to a decent dose of what that girl’s been getting. The one upstairs too. Can’t have the bruisers of the group waking up and spoiling dinner.”

“Did feminism go out with your humanity?” she sparred back, checking John’s pants pocket and finding it empty, “Or were you stuck in the 1920s before you turned?”

“All I know is,” the Rugaru countered roughly, “I’m out here and my brother is in there. In almost any instance, for all their physical strength, they’re out of control.” At this conclusion, Mary dipped her hand into her husband’s jacket, fingers at last brushing against the lighter and— She stiffened and fought to keep her uncertainty from showing. There were dozens of reasonable explanations for its presence on his person, including the likelihood that whatever it contained would help in effectively spreading the lighter’s fire. There was also the very real possibility that being overly prepared was far and away not John’s motive for bringing it along. More than anything, while she knew they were concerns she would soon have to voice, this wasn’t the time for the kinds of questions that were springing to mind. Right now, everything was about survival, and so she forced herself to fixate upon how the discovery would aid in what she had planned, rather than the fears that brought unasked for credence to the beast’s statement.

“Alright!” the coroner said brightly, “Let’s—” The girl groaned softly, and for the first time since Mary had awakened, she saw the man’s expression truly sour. With a displeased hum, he stepped back to the sink and began rifling through the bag set on top of it. As soon as he turned his back, the girl’s eyes flew open and she snapped forward almost mechanically into a seated position.

“Father!” the Rugaru cried, starting out of the crouch, “The girl!” The man glanced back over his shoulder just in time to see his would-be victim fling her arms outward, sending both he and the creature crashing into the walls beside them. Though startled by the young woman’s initial awakening, Mary hadn’t been so unnerved as to cease her measured grab for the contents of John’s pocket. Now, however, she was frozen.

Arms still spread, the girl hopped down from the table  and stepped over to the felled man. After a beat of examination which included a none too gentle kick of his crumpled frame, she swiveled her body to face the beast, keeping a hand raised toward it as the thing writhed against the corner it had been pressed into, held fast by some unseen force force.

“Are you able to free yourself?” the young woman called, voice harsher than what seemed right.

“I--” the Rugaru began, “I--”

“Not you, creature!” the girl intoned, thrusting her palm forward to somehow slam it against the wall again. She took a step back and stared down at Mary, blue eyes blazing in a way that was both inhuman and disturbingly familiar.

“Well?” she asked tersely.

  
“Me?” Mary answered weakly, “But wait, I--?” The girl rolled her eyes, flicking her free hand out as if swatting at something, and all at once the bindings on Mary’s feet untied themselves.

“Get up, Mary!” her rescuer insisted, “There isn’t time!” The similarities between this moment and that night in Kansas slid home with a jolt that shocked her from stunned stillness, and she rose to her feet, bringing the items she had wriggled out of John’s pocket from behind her back. The electric blue eyes regarded her tools with a look of what she hoped was approval.

“Those should do just fine,” the girl said, “Now quickly, the beasts--”

“You’re that thing from before,” Mary interrupted, stepping around it in a wide arc, “The one from that night, aren’t you?”

“I told you,” the voice rumbled, “There isn’t--”

“Cas--Castiel, right? What are you-- Why are you here?” The thing that most certainly wasn’t human shook its head in frustration and fixed her with a glare that sent shivers prickling down her spine.

“I am here,” Castiel all but fumed, “to protect you, as I have promised. But I can only retain this form for so long before--” They stopped short as the energy behind their eyes seemed to flare outward. The girl’s form staggered and lowered their arm, allowing the previously captive monster to stumble away from the wall it had been held against.

“This form is... Too weak,” the voice rasped from the now hunched body, something glowing too brightly from beneath its borrowed skin, “I am out of time... I am… Sorry.” The otherworldly gaze fell upon her a final time, softer now and almost captivating if not for the fear it had already inspired, and then the girl collapsed, falling to the ground like a discarded rag-doll.

For a several fragile seconds, Mary was able to do little more than gape after the splayed figure, but then the growl of the Rugaru reminded her of more pressing matters.

“I don’t know what that was,” the creature snarled, “But it looks like it’s just you and me now. And I’m much too hungry to wait for Father to carve you into bite sized pieces.” It lunged toward her and Mary threw herself to the right, sliding over the operating table and toppling it sideways. She tumbled into a crouch and leaned against the upset platform, using the temporary cover it provided to unscrew the flask and flick open the lighter she had kept tightly clutched in her hands.

“Nice try,” the Rugaru bellowed, quickly rounding the makeshift shelter to tower over her, “But enough is--” Mary splashed the contents of the flask up at the beast, rolled the flint wheel beneath her thumb, and tossed the flaming lighter toward her attacker.

The creature ignited with an enraged shriek, the potent smell of whiskey quickly devolving into the stench of burning skin and hair. She scrabbled backward as the beast flailed wildly, pressing herself almost beneath the sink as she watched it swat away the upturned table and stagger toward the stairway before giving a final scream and pitching forward onto the cement floor in a blazing heap.

When the monster finally stilled, Mary drew a shaky breath and stood up, gradually starting back toward her husband and the girl she hoped was still alive enough to save. After only a few steps forward, padlocked door across from her slammed open, revealing the twin of the now smoldering female Rugaru. The male’s eyes fell to it’s lifeless sibling and a strangled, agonized sound escaped from between its clenched teeth. Taking advantage of this apparent mourning, Mary began silently backtracking toward where she had knelt mere minutes ago, glancing around for the lighter she had thrown in her initial assault. She was almost to the opposite end of the basement yet again, when she caught sight of the second creature coiling onto all fours and preparing to launch itself at her.

There was a sudden creaking from the stairs and the Rugaru only had a moment to look up before a jet of flames cascaded down upon it, rapidly engulfing its head. It clutched at its skull with a shriek, only succeeding in spreading the fire across its upper extremities. The stairs’ wooden groaning continued, and soon Ellen came into view, wielding what appeared to be an aerosol can and a lighter similar to the one Mary had discarded. She pressed forward, spurting more bursts of inflamed chemicals at the thrashing inferno that had once been the coroner’s monstrous son. When it fell beside its kin, the hunter doused it in a final puff of flames for good measure before turning to Mary.  
“You alright?” she huffed.

“More or less?” Mary returned, letting out a stuttered breath of her own.

“And them?” she queried, indicating John and the girl with a tilt of her chin.

“John’s knocked out. I’m not sure about her.” Ellen moved to the prone young woman and bent to press her fingers to her neck.

“She’s got a pulse,” she said, straightening back to standing.

“Bill?” Mary offered tentatively.

“He’ll have a hell of a headache, but he’ll live,” Ellen replied. Mary nodded, shoulders slumping as all of her remaining adrenaline began to wane.

“Huh,” Ellen coughed, leaning against the steps’ rickety banister.

“What?” Mary asked, resting a hand on her hip.

“It’s nothing,” the other woman said mildly, “Just… Well, I guess nobody turned out to be the ghoul.” Mary cocked her head at her before letting out a weary chuckle she no longer had the energy or the sanity to suppress.

*

 

After managing to awaken Bill and John, the group set to work on damage control, properly disposing of the charred Rugaru bodies, calling in a tip to the police about the cabin and the murderous coroner inside, and dropping the near comatose girl at the local hospital. In spite of all their troubles, it was only early evening when all was said and done. John had offered the Harvelle‘s a drink and a few hours respite back at the motel, but the couple had declined in favor of returning to their home several hours away, encouraging them to visit before speeding off down the road.

Once back inside their rented room, John had made a beeline for the bathroom to take a shower, and perhaps avoid any renewal of the conversation Mary had tried to start on the ride back about the flask she had found in his pocket. Of course he had brushed it off, made some offhand comment about tools of the trade, but he hadn’t met her eyes once after she’d brought it up, and something about his easy smirk hadn’t been so easy.

As she heard the muffled sound of shower head cutting on, she lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, feeling the weight of the day physically and mentally bearing down on her. Just shy of overwhelmed, she contemplated falling back against the mattress and battling toward sleep without any further preparations, when she caught sight of the phone resting on the nightstand. Before she knew it she had snatched up the receiver and was dialing Bobby’s number. He picked up after only two rings.

“Yeah?” the man croaked at her, sounding drawn.

“It’s me,” she said, “We’re all finished down here.”

“Everything go alright?” he asked.

“Not at first. We were wrong about what was doing it. It was a couple of Rugaru, not ghouls.”

“Balls. You two beat to hell or what?”

“We’re fine for the most part. We had help from another pair of hunters. The Harvelles?” For now, at least over the phone, Mary thought it best to leave the latest angel involvement out of it. She and the oter hunter had only ever briefly touched on the subject of Castiel, and she still hadn’t even had a chance to explain this instance to her husband.

“I think I may have met a Bill Harvelle a while back,” Bobby mused.

“That was him,” Mary confirmed, “and his wife, Ellen. Things got a little dicey for a while, but we got through it well enough. We should be home by tomorrow afternoon, at the latest.”

“Great,” Bobby said, sounding slightly ill at ease.

“Bobby?”

“Huh?”

“Everything alright on your end? You sound a little… off.”

“Yeah, things are… Yeah.”

“Bobby?”

“Well I… That is to say… Aw hell, Mary, you’re gonna kill me.”

“... Are the boys OK?”

“They’re fine, I can promise you that, but—”

“They awake?”

“... Yeah. I let Sam nap too long and Dean wouldn’t think about agreeing to lights out until you two called. But that’s not—”

“Just put them on the phone, Bobby. I’ll yell at you  when we’re back in town. For now, I just wanna talk to my kids.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> -Small children handling weapons  
> -Implication of suicide  
> -Potential alcoholism


	7. That's The Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A difficult hunt leads to a breaking point for one of the Winchesters. Meanwhile, Castiel struggles with a burgeoning attachment to his charges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was so late. Between getting set up with NaNoWriMo (for the first time ever; fingers crossed, trying not to implode...) and the fact that this chapter was a little tough to write, things got away from me for a bit. Also, trying a thing with adding dates to the top of chapters and I may go back and do it for the others. Let me know what you think in the comments.  
> Spoiler-ish warnings in the end notes.

**APRIL 1990**

 

Dean hugged the wall of the shed he hid behind, knife poised to strike. Inching forward, he started to peer around a nearby corner and--

“Gotcha!” a familiar voice cried as a hand dropped on to his shoulder. Dean jumped, whirling around to face his younger brother, who had already retreated several feet away from him, a smug grin on his face.

They were standing in the Harvelles’ backyard, having arrived with their mom earlier in the day to join the family for Easter dinner. Their father and Uncle Bobby were expected back from a hunt within the next handful of hours, and while everyone else waited inside, either idly chatting or, as had been the case with Sam and Jo, watching TV, Dean had slipped away to practice how he would handle what his father was tracking had he been allowed to come along.

“Sammy!” he snapped, “You can’t just— Do you know I could’ve killed you?” He held up the knife to further his point.

“No way!” Sam chuckled, “You were way too slow. If I was a Vetala you would’ve been done!”

“Oh yeah?” Dean challenged, crossing his arms, “And how done do you think you’re gonna be when mom finds out you’ve been reading Uncle Bobby’s journals again?” Sam’s eyes widened, smile sliding from his face.

“You’re gonna tell?” he squeaked. Dean raised an eyebrow as if he were honestly considering it before dropping the act with a shake of his head.

“Nah,” he relented, folding his blade and tucking it back into his pocket, “I don’t want to freak her out. But you gotta stop sneaking books, Sammy. I mean, it’s not like you need to know about all that stuff. We’ve got it covered.”

  
“Maybe I can help too,” Sam shrugged.

“Books are different from the real thing” he argued, “It’s too dangerous.”

“You get to go.”

“Yeah because I’m old enough.”

“You were little when you started.” He wasn’t wrong there.

In the aftermath of the break-in over three years ago, a lot had changed. Once the adults had had a chance to discuss what had taken place when the very human woman had attempted to rob Bobby’s house, Dean was sat down for a long conversation, not just about firing the gun, but a grand sum of everything hunting and monster related. In the end, after much back and forth and some not so private arguments between his parents, it had been tentatively agreed that, in addition to a more extensive knowledge of the kinds of things he may one day be up against, he needed to better understand how to protect himself. Eventually, his dad had managed to leverage this beyond hand to hand combat and into a variety of weapons trainings and, more recently, an educational “field trip” that had led to Dean’s first encounter with an actual ghost. Through it all, Dean had tried as hard as he could to show his mom that he was ok, and for the most part he was. Past bouts of sleepiness notwithstanding, he was doing well in school, excelling in some area even. The hunters training itself was by no means easy, could sometimes be downright grueling, but all of the tutelage provided to him at home had him fast becoming more and more confident in his survival skills . However, while her trepidation had somewhat lessened with time, sometimes to the point where she would occasionally step in to aid in his extracurricular education, he could tell that she would never really be comfortable with him being involved in what his father in rare moments called “the family business.” Given her current level of concern over how things now stood, the last thing that would make the situation better was Sam jumping into it all. Anyway, one of the most important lessons that his dad had hammered into his understanding was that he was being trained to help protect his brother. Involving him would just defeat the purpose.

“Look Sammy,” Dean began.

“Stop calling me that,” he interrupted irritably, “I’m not a baby.”

“Well, you’re kind of acting like one,” he shot back without thinking. Sam’s features pinched together in anger, and with a flare of his nostrils he turned and began stalking away.

“Aw come on!” Dean called, “I didn’t mean it.” Sam didn’t look back or slow down, instead seemingly picking up speed to dart around the right hand corner of the house and out of sight.

“Crap,” Dean muttered, reluctantly jogging after him. By the time he made it to the front porch, his brother was nowhere in sight. He hadn’t heard the boy’s quick steps across the wooden platform, or the slam of the screen door that usually followed it, but that didn’t mean anything. As he had all too recently been reminded, the kid could be ninja-level sneaky, and for all he knew was already inside whining to their mother.

Shoulders slumping, Dean climbed the broad porch steps and yanked the door open, keeping his ears pricked from any sign of an incoming lecture as he entered the front hallway. When he heard no immediate sounds of trouble, he continued into the living room, where the he found the Harvelle’s daughter seated on the couch and transfixed by a cartoon Easter special.

“Hey Jo,” Dean said, glancing around the den.

“Hi Dean,”the girl said, flashing him a bright smile, “Wanna watch?”

“Maybe in a minute,” he replied distractedly, checking behind the couch, “Hey, did you see Sammy come in here?”

“Uh uh.” She turned her attention back to the television and was lost to the real world once again. Frowning, he moved on, roving about the house with a rapidly increasing irritability the longer Sam failed to show. In a matter of minutes he had checked just about every hiding spot he could think of, but to no avail, and he was beginning to feel the edges of his annoyance fray into anxiety. If he wasn’t inside, Dean had no idea where he could have gotten off to so fast, at least not on his own. The image of any number of the creatures he had been warned about snatching up his brother tried to come into focus but he batted it away. It couldn’t be that, not here, and not when it would so blatantly be his fault for not watching him closely enough.

Retracing his steps, he eventually ended up in the hallway leading toward the kitchen, and as he neared its open doorway, he paused to listen out for any trace of his sibling.

“I’m telling you,” Bill’s voice resounded, “It’ll be great! Like a hub for sharing information, working together. The bar up front would be open to anyone of course, even the civilians, but the back could be more of a hunters-only setup. A couple rooms in case someone needs a rest or patching up after a rough job, and a main office for both sides of it, ya know? The legit business and the research? Kinda like Singer’s den, but more organized, maybe with a computer even.”

“A computer?” Ellen repeated with a chuckle.

“Yeah,” Bill insisted, “I hear that’s where things are headed.”

“Is that right?” Mary added, “Because I can’t imagine-- Dean? Is that you out there?” He stepped completely into view, his gaze sweeping over Bill hard at work on meal preparation, his mother and Ellen seated at the table, and no Sam at all, as he leaned heavily against the door jamb.

“Everything alright?” his mom asked, raising an eyebrow. Mounting guilt nudging at his insides, Dean opened his mouth to reply in the negative, when the familiar rumble of the impala’s engine sounded from somewhere close by, interrupting his confession and sending his heartbeat into an almost painfully rapid rhythm.

He was not afraid of his dad. On the contrary, there were few people in the world that Dean loved more or held in higher regard. But there was a difference between the side of John Winchester that tucked him in at night and the one that drilled him on the finer points of  dispatching a vampire. He had learned early on to be wary of this second version’s moods, both after a hunt or when he caught him making careless mistakes. There had been one time during a practice hunt in the salvage yard, when Dean had slipped up and “died” far too often, that even now served as a particularly strong reminder of how unforgiving that John Winchester could be. With that in mind, something told him that he would get much more than a harsh dressing down if he had lost the person he was training to look out for.

“Sounds like the rest of the boys are home,” Ellen said, offering Mary an amused smile.

“And early for once,” the woman added, rising from her chair, “Imagine that.” With that, she strode out of the kitchen and into the hallway, squeezing her son’s shoulder as she passed. Fighting to swallow the lump rising in his throat, he reluctantly followed behind her, determined not to chicken out and take whatever was coming to him if it meant they could help him track down his missing brother.

When they stepped out onto the porch, they were greeted by the sight of the two hunters just starting to climb out of the car, and to Dean’s surprise it looked as though his dad had been riding shotgun. Both men looked tired, but in different ways that seemed uncomfortably mismatched. Uncle Bobby’s face was tight with  an odd kind of strain, and there was something between nervousness and agitation in the way his eyes kept flicking back to his companion. In contrast, everything about his dad’s demeanor seemed looser, almost slack and… Off in a way Dean couldn’t put his finger on. He heard his mom hiss out a low breath, and when he glanced up at her, he found her smile had faded to almost nothing.

Bobby approached them first, casting a quick, leery glance back at his partner, who had paused to lean against the car and roughly run a hand over his face.

“Bad one?” Mary asked, though her tone said she already knew the answer.

“Yeah,” Bobby agreed, briefly lifting his hat to run a hand through his thinning hair, “Just when I think I’ve seen the worst of it, they surprise me.” He shook his head as if trying to dislodge something before fixing Dean with an attempt at a smile.

“Hey kid,” he greeted, “Figured you’d be crashed out on jellybeans by the time we got back.” Dean shrugged, unable to offer much small talk with his stomach twisting into knots.

“Huh,” he replied, managing a more genuine smirk, “Well, chatterbox, how’s about we take all this conversation inside, give your folks a few minutes? You know how mushy us old people can get.”

“Now hang on, Singer,” the other returning hunter called, finally ambling away from the impala to join them, “Don’t go chasin’ my boy away ‘fore I’ve had a chance to say hello.” He pushed past a quietly grumbling Uncle Bobby and laid a hand on his son’s head, red-rimmed eyes crinkling fondly as he ruffled the boys hair.

“You been good for your mom and the Harvelles?” his dad asked.

“Yessir,” Dean mumbled, nodding quickly.

“Good,” the man rumbled, “And you’ve been keeping an eye on your brother?”

“Y-yeah but--”

“Well where’s he at? Don’t tell me he’s so glued to that damned TV he can’t come out to see his old man.” Dean shook his head, dropping his eyes as he fumbled for an answer. Before he could even begin to come to something satisfactory, his father was kneeling in front of him, craning his face into his line of sight.

“Dean,” he pressed, voice deepening toward something less casual, “Where’s your brother?” Dean sputtered for a moment and then broke.

  
“I can’t find him,” he conceded, shoulders drooping, “I’ve been looking but--”

“What do you mean you can’t find him?” his dad challenged.

“Aw hell John,” Bobby jumped in, “They’re probably just playin’ a game or--”

“Where’s Sam?” he snapped over his friend’s attempt at intervening.

“John, calm down,” his mom interjected firmly before softening her tone, “Dean, honey, when was the last time you saw him?”

“We--We were in the backyard,” he recounted, “And I made him mad and he ran off and--”

“And you just let him?” his father broke in, grabbing him roughly by the arms and shaking him, “You know what’s out there! You know what could happen! You’re supposed to look out for him!” All at once, the two of them were being hauled apart, his mom gently pulling him to her side and Uncle Bobby yanking his dad to the opposite side of the porch.

“You need to take a walk,” he heard the bearded hunter order, “Now.”

“You’re alright,” his mother insisted, rubbing his shoulder and squeezing him tighter against her hip. Dean didn’t respond, instead gulping in a few tremulous breaths. His eyes were clouded with tears and he wasn’t sure if they were stinging because he was crying or because of the harsh odor that had struck out at him from underneath his father’s breath. In either case, he was so overwhelmed with everything he was experiencing, inside and out, that he almost didn’t see Sam crawl out from under the porch and turn around to face him, his own eyes wet and distraught.

 

* * *

 

 

Mary paced the front hallway, torn between going to the living room to speak to Dean and stepping outside to wait for her husband. Things had smoothed over well enough after Sam had come out of his hiding spot and John had stalked off that they had managed to have a decent if not slightly subdued dinner. Once everything was cleared away and the children were parked back in the living room, Bobby had explained the hunt they had been on and the circumstances that had brought everything to the breaking point Mary had witnessed on the porch. It didn’t make up for anything or change the conversations she was going to have to have, but it did add a thin layer of sense over the entire mess.

“Now,” she heard Bill drawl behind her, “Causin’ a ruckus on the porch is one thing, but wearing a hole in the floor? Unforgivable.” Mary turned and found him standing beside the bannister of the steps leading to the second floor, his gaze questioning but not unkind.

“I’m really sorry Bill,” she sighed, “If I’d known we were going to be so much trouble we wouldn’t we come.”

“I was joking,” Bill replied, folding his arms, “Guess it’s a little soon to poke fun.”

“No I just… I’m so sorry.”

“You can quit apologizing. You gotta know that me and Ellen, we get it. Some hunts are harder than others. I can’t tell ya how many times I’ve come home miles past done in.” Mary stopped pacing and leaned against the door, crossing her own arms to mirror him.

“Yeah?” she asked, raising an eyebrow “You ever come back so rough you get in your kid’s face about it?”

“Well no,” Bill conceded.

“Didn’t think so,” Mary concluded.

  
“And I’m not saying I condone that kinda thing, but… Everyone’s got a button, especially when they’ve got kids, and based on what Bobby said, it’s pretty clear John’s got pushed and then some.”

“I don’t expect it not to get to him. I mean, I’ve seen the kinds of people it doesn’t get to anymore and I never want him to turn into that. But, he’s been doing this long enough to know better, to be better than… Than today.”

Bill tilted his head thoughtfully. “Maybe the time’s the problem. He’s been running things down for what, six years now? And everything’s still pretty much a placeholder for what he’s really after. I mean, almost every hunter’s got that too: a thing that kicked us into this mess by hurting or killing what we care about. Thing is, when you can’t get at it, it eats at you all kinds of terrible.”

“Is that how it was for you?” Mary started, carefully because her search for common ground was still prying. To her relief the man nodded, pressing his lips into a thin line just shy of a frown.

“It was back in Oklahoma,” he explained, “I was just a kid. Someone was digging up graves, tearing folks out of their coffins. We figured robbers without the couth to set people back right ‘fore animals could get to em, rough up the remains.”

“Actual ghouls,” Mary offered.

“And not Rugaru in disguise, yeah,” he added, smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. Mary returned the smile quickly, before the humor could fade from both of their faces.

“One night,” Bill continued, “A couple of us fellas got it into our heads to go after whoever was responsible, catch ‘em in the act. Needless to say, we got a lot more’n we bargained for. I don’t think I would’ve made it if Ellen hadn’t tagged along and saved my ass.”

“I didn’t know you two had been together that long,” Mary mused aloud.

“Yeah,” he returned with a more lasting grin, “She was basically the same back then. Stubborn as all get out and wicked with a shotgun. She stuck with me through the worst of it while I tracked down the thing that killed my friends, helped bring me back from a few edges. It only took me half a year and I was near outta my mind grieving for how life used to be, and trying to fight through everything that comes with starting down the path I was on. It wasn’t until I caught up with the monster and took it out that I could take a second to really breathe, and start to feel like hunting was a choice I could make and not an itch that had me scratching’ my skin off. I can’t imagine what it’d be like to feel that way for six whole years, especially when the thing you’re chasing down’s put a target on your family, on your kid.” Mary had told the Harvelles something of their troubles in Kansas, but had left out some of the finer, touchier details. She wondered how sympathetic they would be if they knew how much of a hand she had had in painting that target.

“Not making judgements one way or another,” Bill added, as if reading her troubled thoughts, “Just saying life is hard enough before there’s actual live monsters.”

Mary opened her mouth to agree when a heavy creak from outside cut her off. She turned, glanced through the door’s peephole, and sure enough…

“I’ll leave you to it,” Bill said gently, and when she glanced back over her shoulder he was already making his way up the stairs.

“Bill,” she called, just above a whisper.

“Yeah?” he tossed back, pausing and twisting toward her in a similar fashion.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Aw come on now, don’t get sappy on me Winchester. Now go see to your man.” With that he headed the rest of the way up the stairs, leaving her to what awaited outside. Taking a deep breath, she pulled the main door open and pushed its screened counterpart ajar to step into the cool night air and join her husband on the porch.

He sat at the bottom of stairs, forearms on his knees and his face turned upward towards the sky. As she came to lean against one of the beams that held up overhang of the roof above her, Mary wracked her brain for how to begin, but, for better or for worse, John beat her to it.

“Dinner go alright?” he asked, still staring at the stars.

“For the most part,” she replied lightly, “The boy’s were a little cagey, but Jo got them to laugh a few times.”

“Good for her,” John said earnestly, “she’s a good kid... I had to chop off a girl’s head yesterday. She looked like she was about Jo’s age.” Mary bit her lip. She had heard enough and then some from Bobby about the hunt, where vampires had turned children as a kind of sick, covert defensive line for their nest.

“John,” she tried, “I--”

“You know,” he interrupted, “Every time I think I've got a grip on how bad it is… If demons are supposed to be the end all, be all of evil, I can’t even…” He trailed off with a bitter cough.

“Then maybe,” she offered, “Maybe it’s time to take a break. Get your bearings.”

“...I can’t.”

“Yes you can, and you should considering what this last trip did to you.”

“I’m sorry for today.”

“I know you are, although you’d do better telling that to your son--”

“And I will--”

“But you can’t keep going like this. Six years nonstop? I’ve seen less break good men--Damnit, even Rufus takes time off with the people he thinks nobody knows he's got in Omaha.”

At this, he shifted to face her, brow creased in confusion.

“You think this is how I want it?” he questioned roughly, “You think I like pushin’ and pushin’ right up to the second that I can’t? I don’t think I can even say how much I wish I could call it quits for a week, a whole month, hell a year. But you know what doesn’t take days off? Vampires. And ghouls, and Rugaru, and wraiths, and whatever the hell else, and that’s not even gettin’ to that yellowed eyed son of a bitch. Lord knows what that bastard gets up to the longer he’s out there.”

“I hate that he’s out there too,” she returned, “everyday. I want to find him just as bad as you do and I’m trying.” And she had been. Throughout the years they had worked out a decent enough formula. There were, of course, the demonic omens, but more than that, all of the fires similar to their own had happened to families with six month old infants, whose parents had previously survived accidents in the face of harrowing odds. It had taken a lot of sometimes not all the way legal digging, and a lot help from Bobby, Rufus, and even John himself, but she had finally arrived at a complete M.O. and pattern. That said, it didn’t do much when the incidents had all but stopped, and she didn’t have anything remotely approaching the time and resources one would need to line every potential instance of demonic activity with birth records and incident reports. Reaching that particular dead end had been frustrating for all of them, but it had hit John especially hard, his dashed hopes spurring him forward with a renewed and often reckless vigor.

“I know you are,” John insisted vehemently, “I am too, and that’s the whole point. Almost any day spent not trying, either by hunting down what I can get to or showing that boy how to handle it, feels like I’m doin’ it all wrong.”

“So today felt right?” she argued, just barely tempering the heat rising in her tone. For a moment it looked as if he were going to fire back at her, but then his shoulders slumped and he scrubbed a hand over his face.

“No” he replied softly, “Not at all.”

“Good,” she said tersely, “That is our son and nothing about this life makes it ok for you to treat him that way, or hurt him like you did. You can’t take a break? Fine. But if a job leaves you so raw that you can’t come home right to your boys then…” She hesitated, trying not to buckle under the weight of what she was about to say.

“Then what?” he asked, a grim and expectant resolve creeping into his voice.

“I’m not throwing you out of our lives,” she settled on, “The boy’s need you… I need you. But not like that. Never like that. So if you can’t come home right, I don’t want you back until you can. Call, let us know you’ve made it out, and then find a motel or some place away to get your head together or… Sober up.” In the past, he had justified the flask in his pocket in many ways. First it was an easy, low profile accelerant and disinfectant, then something to shut out the cold in winter, then a minor indulgence to celebrate making it through. Now, there weren’t any explanations or excuses, just a slow nod, and she wasn’t sure if it was any better.

As she wrestled with this, John stood and took a backward step away from her.

“In that case,” he began, “I think I oughtta head home. I think I can be… Better by the time you all get back. You got enough room in the car for Bobby, right?” Mary swallowed, determined not to let the suddenness of his departure push her toward any kind of backpedaling.

“Are you alright to drive?” she queried, “No matter what, the last thing I want is you getting in an accident.”

“Yeah,” he said, the ghost of a smirk on his lips, “Don’t worry. Can’t get rid of me that easy.” They regarded one another for a beat and then John strode over to the impala, lowered himself into it, and eased out of the driveway. When the car’s taillights disappeared from view, Mary headed back inside, more than ready to crawl into the Harvelle’s guest bedroom. However, the sight of her oldest son sitting on the steps where Bill had stood earlier told her the day wasn’t quite over yet.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked, taking a seat beside him.

“Not really,” he mumbled.

“Well,” she considered, “How about--”

“Is dad still mad at me? Is he leaving like before, but because of me?”

“Before-- you remember that?” Dean had just turned four when she and John had briefly separated, and a part of her had hoped that he was either far too young to remember, or that the more harrowing events of that year had overridden the memory.

“Yeah,” Dean confirmed, “I didn’t mean to screw up. I promise I’ll never mess up that bad again.”

“Honey,” Mary sighed, forcing herself to remain calm in spite of her heart all but ripping in half, “Nothing about today or anything that happens after is your fault... He had a bad day, and any time he’s away is because he’s making sure it never gets that bad again.”

“But,” he persisted, “today, with Sam--”

“Was not your fault. Dean, it is your dad and I’s job to watch over you _and_ Sam, not yours. I love how much you look out for him, but we’re the ones who are supposed to keep him safe. I know what dad says, but it isn’t your responsibility.” Dean stared up at her contemplatively, and she could tell he only half believed her, if that.

“And dad isn’t mad at you,” she pressed, “he’s… It’s not right, at all, how he was today but--”

“He was afraid,” Dean finished, not so much as a question but as if he was repeating something he’d heard from someone else. She blinked down at him in vague surprise.

It could be that Bobby, Bill, or Ellen had talked to him, but she knew it was equally likely his source was far more otherworldly. They didn’t talk about Castiel much, even now that she had little doubt of his existence or continued presence at the fringes of their lives. There was almost nothing of Angels in the research available to her, and discussing him with her son hadn’t yielded anything all that useful beyond an agreement to let his parents know if the being he sometimes dreamed of asked for or promised anything untoward or disturbing. All of that established, she had set him aside in her mind largely because, for now at least, he (it?) managed to be among the least of her worries and something apparently benign that she had no way of interacting with. There was also a part of her, perhaps a naive or even stupid part, that wanted to let it lie and allow for the possibility that something good really was watching over her family, that it made sense for an angel to appear alongside the demon. Though, in times like these she wondered how much good angelic protection would do, when the worst of what they faced was themselves.

“Yes,” she answered finally, wrapping an arm around her son’s shoulder, “He got scared and he messed up. But it’s going to be alright. I promise.” At this point, she wasn’t certain if she was telling Dean or herself, or more importantly if she was being honest with either of them.

 

* * *

 

Hovering above the Harvelles’ home, gaze turned toward a vast expanse of stars, Castiel was confused, had been confused throughout the entirety of the debacle that was the latter half of the day. It wasn’t only the actions he had witnessed that bucked most notions of reason, though today was excessive in reminding him just how needlessly complicated humans made things. No, his charges’ irrational deeds aside, what plagued him the most was his inability to reconcile what he understood of himself with how it all had made him… Feel

He had tried to ignore it at first, to suppress every drop of confusion and reaction beginning from the time of Sam’s initial incitement of the the tumult all the way to through to John’s second departure. It hadn’t been all that difficult at the start, but by the time he was monitoring the Winchester father’s safe return home, he could feel an entire host of affectations screaming for purchase, many of which had either so rarely made appearances that he hardly recognized them, or were rising from unfamiliar places altogether.

He understood sadness, and anger, especially given his time in hell and the lingering bitterness he had cultivated there. But he was not well acquainted with the disappointment and rage John Winchester’s explosive reactions had roused, or the strange ache he had felt for the entire family throughout the aftermath, Dean in particular once he had laid bare his nonsensical guilt in the face of his father’s violence. He understood that he had never been entirely objective. His initial involvement in their lives had been born of selfish motives, and the similarities between Dean’s conflicted familial duty and his own were enough in number that he could not view them through an impartial lens. All of that aside, he had always maintained that his watch of the family was a part of a grander mission and that all he did was in service to its success. But these feelings served no such purpose, at least none that he could discern, which meant somewhere along the line he had been compromised. Somehow, he was… Attached.

It could be said that this was a long time coming, and had been perhaps even as far back as when he first slipped into Dean’s dreams or when he had started acquiescing to his requests, but in any case he was uncertain of what it all meant going forward. Everything he understood about the nature of existence told him emotions were a blight upon a celestial being’s ability to function, and a dangerous one at that. It clouded judgement, led to lapses of logic that gave way to catastrophic end results, or so his own brushes with sentiment had led him to believe. Even this evening there had been the faintest sense of… Reluctance in seeing John home safely after all he had done, reluctance to perform what was right and necessary for the man’s safety.

Then again, it was his concern for the family, that had driven him to come to Mary’s aid on the Rugaru hunt, to send Gabriel to rescue Dean from very real peril. It had even played a hand in seeing to it that John’s excessive imbibing hadn’t been his undoing tonight, had overridden his passingly derisive feelings toward the man. At face value, it didn’t seem that such a shift had been at all detrimental to his duties. If anything, the change had worked in favor of his commitment to the Winchesters’ protection. And yet, everything he knew told him that couldn’t possibly be correct.

His mind was an unfamiliar maelstrom, with his every conclusion giving way to an equally logical counter, and on and on it all swirled. He had been to heaven and hell, been both duty bound and unbridled by rebellion, but it was here on Earth, tasked with the simplest of rogue assignment that he faced the most aggravating befuddlement. Worst of all, he was alone in this; there was no guidance that either of the realms he had previously resided in could or would provide, and Gabriel had made it clear that any future calls should only be made in the worst of emergencies. All he had were the human charges who had so irrefutably affected him. More specifically, the one human who failed to view him as anything beyond friend and protector, who accepted him fully in spite of how misguided and troubling such a rationale ultimately was. The fact that this still managed to comfort him was yet another sign of how tightly this affliction of emotions held him.

His thoughts once more straying to the family he held guardianship over, Castiel eased back into the house and found the three Winchesters who had stayed behind somehow squeezed together on the Harvelles’ sofa, each in their own stages of sleep beneath an oversized comforter.

Regardless of the sense or sanity of it all, these beings had become important to him. He could argue that the endearment lay within what they could help provide him with: a window into his brothers’ apocalyptic planning and in turn a chance to circumvent it. Or, he could perhaps be more honest with himself and admit it had been some time since he had truly concerned himself with what, for the moment seemed a distant threat. It could also be that he would never understand, that to grasp the whys of the change was an impossible feat altogether, and that he had to prepare himself for yet another unknown in the vast span of his lengthy existence. The possibilities were far too numerous, and so ultimately he forced himself to fixate upon what he did know. This family was his to protect and he would continue to do so for as long as he was fit, even when it meant the odd attempt at saving them from themselves.

Gingerly, he entered first Sam and then Mary’s minds, making minor, clandestine shifts to the trajectory of thoughts that threatened to lurch into nightmares, before turning to Dean.

The boy was replaying the events of the day in his head on a loop, with every repeat of his conflict with John growing more harrowing, more frighteningly aggressive. Deciding against covert forms of comfort, Castiel made himself known to the owner of this dark imagining, sending the entire world into a hazy standstill.

“Cas?” Dean choked out, staggering toward him and away from the fading, ogre-like rendition of his father. Castiel nodded and stepped forward to meet him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
> -References to alcoholism  
> -(Canon-typical?)Violence against children  
> -Mild verbal/physical parental abuse


	8. Hey Hey What Can I Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean attempts a solo hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little breather after the rougher stuff. Enjoy!  
> PS: Please forgive any D&D rules errors. I never played the older editions.

**FEBRUARY 1993**

 

“Nat 20, bitches!” Dean cried, giving an exaggerated pump of his fist.

“Now hang on, Winchester,” the dungeon master cautioned, “It’s not a critical unless I say. Maybe his AC is too high.” Dean leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated scoff. He was seated at a low slung table in the back of the local library’s children’s section, along with four other boys. Normally, he wouldn’t be caught dead among the stacks of kiddie books and too small plastic chairs, but it was the only part of the building where they could talk above a whisper and no one would bother him and the others while they went full on nerd.

“Aw come on,” the boy to Dean’s left, Brian, protested, “Andy hit it with an 18!”

“With a modifier,” Andy, the player across from Brian, clarified, “making it a 22.”

“Well?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow at the challenge, “Critical hit or not?” The dungeon master, or Stanley as he was known outside of games, eyed him dubiously and then relented.

“Yeah,” he said, throwing up a hand dismissively, “Roll your damage.” Dean smirked and tossed a small handful of dice onto the table, the tiny geometrical shapes landing on numbers close enough to their highest values to draw a groan from the boy running the game.

“Did he kill him?” Brian queried eagerly.

“He’s down at least,” Stanley sighed, “Were you striking lethally?”

“Yup!” Dean exclaimed, “Chopping his head off.”

“I thought it was a stake through the heart,” Brain mused, frowning.

“Nah, dude,” Dean shrugged, covertly speaking as an authority, “Head’s the best way. There’s no coming back from a missing head.”

“In D&D it’s more about the hit points than anything else,” Andy countered, “Once it’s at the wrong side of zero, that’s it.”

“Well if it doesn’t matter, then I’m definitely cutting his head off,” Dean reasoned.

“You sure?” Stanley argued, “He might know the locations of some good loot.”

“Nah,” Dean said, “I’m good. Andy’s got some decent spells for that, and I pretty much hit bank when I seduced that fairy queen two sessions ago.” At this, he wriggled his eyebrows until Stanley was chuckling in spite of himself.

He had stumbled onto Dungeons & Dragons completely by accident a little over a month ago. The four boys that made up the group before him had been huddled together over a scattering of books and papers at lunch one day, debating over mythical creatures loudly enough that Dean couldn’t help but overhear. Without much thought, he’d headed over to their table and nosed his way into a conversation about sirens, eventually gaining an invite to their weekly game in the library.

It wasn’t that he was entirely friendless or anything. He was well-liked enough at school to have classmates he could hang out with outside of classes or who would invite him to the odd birthday party. But it was rare that there was anyone he could even hypothetically discuss the other side of his life with, the monsters he knew existed and studied to face off against. Not to mention, it was nice for once to have life and death brawl against a beast not really mean anything.

“Pretty cocky for a beginner, Winchester,” their fifth member muttered teasingly. Dean fought back a blush and offered him a bold, irreverent wink instead. Jackson Page may have been another selling point in getting him to join the party, though he was hardly prepared to admit it, at least not out loud. It was one thing for him to privately acknowledge how the boy’s too blue eyes affected him, but to come out and actually voice the feelings he’d previously reserved for the likes of Abbi Morris in 7th grade, or Alicia Jenkins last year, or, ok maybe Tony Figarella for half a second, was too much. Aside from every other expectation in school or out in the world, he didn’t need that out in the other side of his life, where any hint of being soft could get you killed.

“So, was there any loot?” Brian broke in, “Or are we just gonna end the session with Page and Winchester making googly eyes at each other?”

“Aw, don’t get jealous Brian,” Dean cooed mockingly, railing against the small grain of truth the best way he knew how, “I think you’re cute too.”

“Funny, your mom said the same thing,” Brian returned.

“Dean’s mom would probably kick your ass, Brian,” Jackson interjected before Dean had the chance, and for a brief moment he found himself smiling fondly at his fellow player. Lucky for him, everyone else was too distracted with either laughing at Brian or agreeing with Jackson to notice him struggling to keep himself in check.   

“Alright, alright,” Stanley chided, “let’s get back on track, shall we gentlemen?” Dean probably could have gone another round with Brian or even given the dungeon master a hard time for sounding exactly like their history teacher, but he let it ride. The game was always a nice reprieve but he had somewhere to be after this, the sooner the better.

For the next few minutes he worked with the rest of the group to scout out any potential treasures hidden in their imagined foe’s lair. They were all but wrapped up when Dean spotted Sam making his way toward them, a sight that brought a curse to the edge of his lips. Sam had been at one of his own after school programs and the fact that he was there more than likely meant that his mom was not far behind. It was not unusual for her to give them rides when school or friends kept them out later than the average day, but he thought he had assured her he had the walk home from D&D covered. In any case she was probably out there waiting and that was the last thing he needed given what he had planned.

“Guys,” he hissed, “In a second, I’m gonna need you to work with me, OK?”

“What are you talking about?” Andy asked, carefully marking something down on his character sheet.

“Just,” Dean insisted, “Go with me on--”

“Dean!” Sam interrupted as he sidled up to the table, “Come on! Mom’s waiting outside.”

“Actually Sammy,” Dean replied, “I’ve got a project to work on, right?” He glanced around the table and was met with several disheartening blank stares.

“What kind of a project,” Sam asked, clearly already skeptical.

“It’s for history,” Dean answered confidently, “A presentation on, uh, World War I.

“Weren’t you doing something for that last week?” Sam pressed with a frown.

“Nope. Pretty sure it’s this week.”

“But--no, I remember you complaining about it. You--”

“It’s for extra credit,” Jackson supplied handily, “and actually, Dean’s helping me because I suck at research.”

Dean offered him a smile so wide that it hurt his cheeks before shifting it to something more smug and turning back to his brother.

“So yeah,” he said, “It’s not a big deal though. Tell mom I’ll be home for dinner.” Sam studied him for a beat longer before shrugging and turning to leave.

“Alright but don’t be late!” he called, “Dad’s coming back tonight.” Dean waved at him and then joined his friends in packing up.

“What was that all about?” Andy asked as they headed toward the exit, “Because I’m pretty sure Mr. Harrison doesn’t give extra credit.”

“Yeah, it was total BS,” Dean admitted once they were out on the sidewalk.

“Well?” Brian asked, “What’s up?”

“‘Fraid that’s top secret,” he said, his tone jokingly officious.

“Pfft, whatever,” Stanley brushed off, “He’s probably going to buy more loaded dice for next week.”

“Dude, I ganked that vamp fair and square,” Dean insisted, “Not my fault your guys are such pushovers.”

“Careful what you wish for, Winchester,” the dungeon master cautioned, “Perma-death is a thing.”

“Bring it on, man.” The boy rolled his eyes amiably and, along with Brian and Andy, headed off down the block and out of sight. To both Dean’s simultaneous elation and anxiety, Jackson lingered behind.

“Thanks,” he managed to eek out, “You, uh, did me a real solid back there.”

“Ah, don’t mention it,” Jackson said nonchalantly, “Always happy to help with classified missions.”

“Yeah, well I owe you one,” Dean continued, “Next time you need some quick thinkin’, I got your back.”

“Or, you know, we could just hang out for real some time, when you’re not being all mysterious.” Jackson flashed him a hopeful smile and Dean was all but paralyzed.

Before dungeons and dragons, he and Jackson hadn’t had much occasion to get to know one another, or even really talk in spite of the handful of classes they shared. Part of that had something to do with the fact that, initially, any time Dean thought about speaking to him his mouth ran dry and his thoughts turned dumb and corny; he couldn't count the number of times he'd had to stop himself from making an idiotic, flirty Zeppelin joke about the kid's coincidental last name. Even after they had started interacting for the game, he had figured the boy’s interest was limited to working together at fighting fictional monsters, and so he had further tempered his expectations accordingly and managed not to act too dumb around him. With this invitation and the way Jackson’s deep blue gaze held him, his brain was tumbling backward toward the stupor it had been mired in during the early days of their acquaintance.

“Uh, yeah,” he answered finally, “That would be--that’d be awesome.” Jackson’s smile broadened and for half a second Dean thought he detected the hint of a blush creep into his cheeks. 

“Sweet,” Jackson nodded, filling the silence that threatened to lapse between them, “... I should get probably get going. I actually do have history homework to finish.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dean replied, blinking after far too long, “Me too. I mean, not the homework but the other thing, the needing to go part.”

“Right,” the other boy offered, “Secret mission. Good luck.”

“You too- With the homework I mean.” Jackson nodded again, pressing his lips together as if suppressing a laugh and started down the block, leaving Dean to quietly curse his verbal fumblings as he departed in the opposite direction. After nearly ten minutes of walking, he was over his mortification enough to begin focusing on the task at hand, namely his planned destination.

Kids at school had been talking about old Mrs. Lawson for years, about how she was a witch who never came outside and ate any child stupid enough to set foot on her property. Of course, Dean knew it was all bull, otherwise children would have actually disappeared and either his parents or Uncle Bobby would have handled it, so for the most part he had taken to ignoring all the silly stories that arose and transformed the older he got. But this past winter the old woman had died and the talk had changed in a way that had his ears pricking up. The word these days was that the creaky house Mrs. Lawson had lived in was haunted by its former occupant, and that the spirit was far from friendly. He might have just as easily written this off as well, had it not been for the fact that the first and last group of kids who had tried poking around had come away terrified and with injuries real enough to warrant at least one hospital trip. Once he’d gotten wind of that, Dean had decided that the rumors might be worth looking into.

As the abandoned house came into view, a tiny, annoying voice in his head argued that coming alone as stupid, and that he would have been better off leaving this to one of the more experienced adults in his life, but he shoved it down with a quickness. The whole point of this was to prove that he could do it on his own, that he was ready.

He had been training for nearly seven years but had yet to go on a real hunt. For all his dad’s intense drills, Uncle Bobby’s gentle quizzing him about lore, even his mother’s occasional guidance, they each and all agreed that he either wasn’t ready or needed for actual cases. Dean thought this was absolute crap, had even said as much in a few heated conversations, but none of his guardians would budge on the subject, and every time they would leave without him, particularly when his dad would stay away for long stretches of time, he would feel his frustrations grow. That was why he had reasoned he needed to work this local job alone, if in fact it turned out to be anything at all. Maybe then they would see he could handle himself, or even be of use in helping with the heavy lifting that seemed to keep his father from home longer and longer as the years went by.

When he reached the edge of what had once been Mrs. Lawson’s property, he paused beside a tangle of bushes where he had stashed a bag of tools that he hadn’t been able to keep with his school supplies during a break in classes, namely an iron crowbar and a shotgun loaded with rock salt shells. Exchanging his backpack for this heftier duffel, he made his way up the rickety porch steps and peered between the boards that haphazardly lined the dusty windows. The interior of the house looked similarly dust-covered and benign, but he knew better than to write off something apparently unassuming so quickly. Stepping back and crouching to his knees, he laid down his over-sized luggage and unzipped its main pouch to pull out the crowbar, when something creaked to the right of him. Taking a deep breath and a firm grip on the heavy iron staff, he whirled around with the weapon at the ready, very nearly striking the source of the sound.

“Mom” he breathed, eyes widening, “Sorry, I thought you were--”

“A ghost?” she finished, “Yeah, the iron was a dead giveaway, not to mention the missing shotgun and rock salt.” Dean’s shoulders slumped. He’d thought that no one would have noticed the absence of one missing firearm from the veritable arsenal Uncle Bobby kept at his home. Apparently he hadn’t given his mom’s eye for detail enough credit.

“How’d you find me?” he asked, genuinely curious through his disappointment at getting caught at all.

“You thought I wouldn’t notice a potential haunting in my own town?” she returned, crossing her arms, “Add that to the stuff you took and all I had to do was put two and two together. That weak ‘studying at a friend’s house’ excuse didn’t help much either. I guess you forgot I was a teenager once too.”

“Right,” Dean replied, rolling his eyes at himself, “So I was basically made from the beginning? Is that why you came to pick me up?” She started to answer but paused, something in her expression softening.

“Yes and no,” she said with the faintest hint of a smile, “Actually--” A crash from inside interrupted her and both of their gazes darted toward the supposedly empty home.

“You should head back to the car,” his mom suggested, still scrutinizing the structure before them.

Without thinking, Dean shook his head.

“Not before I check this out,” he said firmly.

“Dean Winchester,” she chided just as strongly as she turned back to him, “This isn’t a game or a drill. This could be--”

“Something real,” he interrupted, “Yeah, I know. That’s why I came. Mom, I’m not a baby. I can handle one measly ghost.”

“You think so, huh? Even though you’ve never even been on a hunt before, and on your own no less?”

“Thinking so is all I’ll ever be able to do if you don’t give me a shot. What’s the point of me knowing all the stuff I know if you won’t let me use it? What am I gonna do one day if I need to fight something off but I’ve never made sure I can?” He fixed her with a defiant stare that she met in kind before something in her face fell. All at once, a pang of guilt lapped at his obstinance.

“I’m all caught up on my homework, and then some,” he added, trying to inject some humor into an otherwise tense conversation. To his minor relief, his mother sighed and nodded in what appeared to be agreement.

“I know,” she said, a lingering defeat and something else he couldn’t place in her tone. Before he had a chance to question it, she squared her shoulders and allowed her expression to once more shift into something stern.

“When we’re in there, listen to everything I say,” she warned, “and do what I tell you, when I tell you, got it?”

“Wha--” Dean sputtered, “I mean, really?”

“Not doing a great job convincing me you’re ready for this,” she admonished.

“No-- I mean, yeah. Yes. I’m ready. I got this.”

“Great. Now gimme that shotgun.”

“But--”

“This is not a negotiation Dean. You’ll do just fine with the crowbar.” Reluctantly he complied, handing her the weapon and adjusting his own grip on the iron beam she had left him with. After taking a moment to check on her ammo, his mother approached the front door of the house, turned the gun’s barrel upward and slammed its butt down against the lock meant to keep trespassers out.

“Whoa,” Dean mumbled as the rent metal tumbled to the ground.

“Come on,” she said, gesturing him forward with a tilt of her head, “let’s get this done.”

 

* * *

 

 

There was definitely a ghost in the house. From almost the moment they had stepped inside Mary had felt a sudden cold and the too familiar sensation of something hidden peering out at them. In any other circumstance, she would have been proud of the clear display of her child’s instincts and intuition, but the fact that it had brought him to a place of very real danger kept any possible sense of gratification well in check. He hadn’t been wrong when he had argued that they had been preparing him for such a thing, but some apparently foolish part of her had hoped he would leave off using the training he had been given for when an emergency called for it, rather than when his curiosity lured him to put it into practice. She supposed she should be grateful that she had at least managed to join him in the ill-advised venture, but that was ultimately of little comfort.

“Mom,” Dean whispered, drawing her out of her thoughts, “I think this floor’s clear. Maybe we should head upstairs.” Sweeping her eyes around their surroundings a final time, she nodded and started toward the broad set of steps in the empty living room, her son following closely behind.

The second floor appeared to be similarly sparse, with a collection of smaller, empty rooms that had likely been bedrooms. After checking through three nearly identical enclosures without incident, Mary was beginning to question just how threatening this spirit actually was, but then a rush of chilly air struck out at her, almost as if in protest.

“Dean,” she murmured, hefting the gun, “I need you to--” She stopped short as she looked back and found that her son was nowhere in sight.

“Dean!” she called out, not quite panicked but with a noticeable edge to her voice.

“Hey mom?” he called back from somewhere outside of the room, “I think I found--” Suddenly she was slammed backward against the nearest wall, striking it hard enough for the gun to go skittering out of her hand. Fighting against blurring vision, she glanced up from where she had fallen and found herself staring at the angry, flickering form of an old woman glaring down at her.

“Get out,” it snarled, “of my house!” And all at once she could feel a pair of incorporeal hands tightening around her windpipe. Mary gagged, trying to draw in even the shallowest of breaths but to no avail. Gritting her teeth, she began fighting her way toward the fallen shotgun, struggling against both her lack of air and the spirit’s attempt to hold her. She had made pitifully little progress when a pair of boots stepped into her line of sight, pausing just beyond the doorway.

“Hey, Casper!” She heard Dean call out, “How’s about some unfriendly fire?” At this, there was the click of a lighter opening, along with a faint whoosh, and suddenly the room was filled with light and  high-pitched wailing. Mary gulped in air as the vice-like grip around her neck vanished, and managed to turn her attention back to the ghost just in time to see the last of it vanish in a blaze of smoke and fire. Grimacing, she brought herself up to a seated position and leaned against the wall she had been thrown against, taking a moment to close her eyes and continue fighting for even breath. When she opened them, her son was seated beside her, looking several years younger for all his concern.

“I’m alright,” she reassured before he could ask, “Just a little winded.” He nodded, the crease between his brows somewhat smoothing.

“Hey,” she continued, “how did you--”

“Found this old brush in the bathroom,” he replied, holding up the charred handle of the object he’d set fire to, “I read that they’d cremated Mrs. Lawson so I figured maybe something in the house was keeping her around.”

“Smart boy,” she croaked.

“I told you I could handle it.”

“I know, and it’s not that I didn’t believe you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I mean it, Dean. It’s just… As long as me and your dad and Bobby have a handle on this kind of stuff, I want you to be able to focus on other things, things you like.”

“I like this enough. I like being able to help.”

“Alright, but this isn’t all there is to your life, and I don’t want the other parts to take a back seat just because this stuff makes you feel like you need it to.” Dean shot her a puzzled look.

“Nothing’s taking a backseat, mom,” he argued.

“Is that why you didn’t tell us you’d tested into the school’s advanced technical program?” she countered. For the second time today, her son’s eyes widened in surprise and she couldn’t help but chuckle.

“That’s why I came to pick you up,” she explained “The school called, said they’d sent you home with a note and were surprised they hadn’t heard back. I’m guessing you trashed it.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Dean shrugged unconvincingly, “They made everyone take the test and it’s not mandatory or anything.”

“OK, but is it something you want to do?” she pressed, “Your counselor said your scores were some of the best in the school.”

“I mean, the engineering stuff looked cool. But all that happens after school, or on the weekends when I’m already doing stuff.”

“You mean training with dad.” He shrugged again, this time conveniently not meeting her eyes.

“Dean,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder, “I might not always be happy about it, but I’m not blind. I know you’re good at this, that you’re probably only going to get better. It’s OK to want the normal stuff and I don’t want you to give up on it or shove it to the side for salt and burns, or whatever else you’ve got it in your head to get up to.”

“I mean,” he replied, his face brightening with a hint of mischief, “I was thinking about stealing the car to check out a werewolf sighting in Omaha.”

“Not funny,” she scolded, “and you know what I mean. I don’t want you skipping out on hanging out with your friends or that girl you like.”

“Girl? What are you talking about?”

“Like I said, I was young once you know. I’ve seen that look you’ve got sometimes.” In direct contrast to what may or may not have been feigned ignorance, Dean’s dismissive frown faded into a look of panic.

“Honey, I’m not trying to pry,” she reassured, “but it’s pretty obvious.”

“Mom,” he insisted, just shy of plaintively, which struck her as odd, “There’s no girl.” She squinted at him appraisingly. She was almost positive about what she had observed in the past month; it was the same moon-eyed look he’d gotten with earlier grade-school crushes she’d helped him make elaborate valentines for when he was younger. These days it was usually when he came home from that game he’d started playing with those boys, Stanley, Brian, Andy, and that one he always seemed to-- Oh.

A dozen reactions pressed out at her all at once, surprise and a heartbreaking concern for how this facet of her child would fit into the world he was so desperate to be a part of chief amongst them. Glancing over at the boy and the thinly veiled dread on his face, she could only imagine that he had faced similar if not more intense feelings of conflict. Taking all of this in, she shoved aside all other potential responses in favor of her strongest instinct.

“You know I love you right?” she said, ignoring her stiffening limbs to squeeze him tightly to her side, “no matter what.”

“Yeah,” he answered, with an automatic bob of his head.

“With all my heart,” she added, “Just promise me you’ll try to be good to yourself. And… Maybe think about that thing at school. If it’ll really make you happy I want you to do it.”

“... I’ll think about it.” Satisfied, she leaned sideways and pressed a kiss to his cheek, drawing a disgusted groan from him.

“Aw mom, come on,” he protested, “Not in front of the creepy house.”

“Alright, alright,” she grinned, “Help me up and let’s get home.” Dean stood and offered his hand, helping her to her feet before collecting the fallen shotgun and the crowbar he had dropped in the hallway.

“Hey,” he said, granting her a hopeful smirk as they made their way back down the stairs, “Does, uh, all this stuff-- the ghost and the talk-- does that mean I’m not in trouble?” Mary laughed and rewarded him with a pitying smile.

“Oh sweetheart. You are probably in the most trouble you’ve ever been in in your entire life. Nice try though.”

 

* * *

 

Jackson stared up at him, something hesitant but intense in his eyes. Their faces were inches away from each other and Dean could feel them drawing infinitesimally closer with each second. He closed his eyes just as their lips were about to meet and--

“That was extremely reckless, Dean,” an aggravated voice broke in. Dean’s eyes snapped open and all at once the dream was sputtering out of focus as they often did when the angel interrupted them. He whirled to face the familiar interloper, not bothering to hide his scowl. Most of the time his presence brought a welcome break from a nightmare or some unpleasant recollection, but now it was an embarrassing intrusion that left him feeling both exposed and, for some reason, guilty.

“Cas!” he cried, just shy of whining, “Not cool.”

“Going on a hunt all by yourself could have been disastrous,” the angel continued, unfazed by what he had stumbled upon, “You could have been seriously injured or worse.”

“Listen man,” Dean pushed back, “I already got read the riot act by mom and dad, not to mention Uncle Bobby _and_ Rufus, so I’m good on the lecture.” He was perhaps, a bit more snappish than he needed to be, but he really had heard enough of how irresponsible he had been in stealing weaponry and heading off on a hunt alone without telling anyone. Castiel’s current form also wasn’t helping matters. He had started aging himself up accordingly years ago, after a rather lengthy and circular discussion about why he had remained a little boy while Dean had not. Any other day, it just made sense, and he didn’t think twice about the fact that his otherworldly friend always appeared just a few years older than him. Today though, he was far too close to just another adult giving him a hard time.

“Well I think it is still a lecture that bears repeating,” Castiel urged, “At least until I can ascertain that the gravity of your actions has been made completely clear.”

“Gravity of my actions?,” he repeated, wrinkling his nose, “Dude, I took out a ghost. Yeah, maybe the hiding it part was crappy but other than that I did good. Nothing blew up, nobody died.”

“But you could have,” Castiel argued, “It is my job to protect you and--”

“Well nothing happened, so job well done. Feel free to skip the wrap up and clock out.” It came out harsher than he meant it and he almost instantly regretted it, but not being in the mood to back down after all of his other talking to's, he completed the dismissal by rolling his eyes and turning his back.

“... And,” Castiel resumed slowly after several moments of tense silence, “I would be greatly displeased to see any harm come to you.”

“Because you wouldn’t get your end of the year bonus?” he snarked childishly, still not facing him.

“Bonus?” he replied, confusion plain, “No. Even if this were an official-- Oh. That was… Sarcasm?” Dean fought back a laugh in spite of his lingering annoyance.

“Yeah man,” he relented, shifting to face him again, “That was sarcasm. I’m not so dumb that I think angels work on commission.”

“I have never believed there is anything stupid about you, Dean,” he countered, still nothing but sincere. Once again Dean found himself transfixed by a pair of blue eyes, this set bluer than made sense and belonging to someone that he couldn’t even fathom having a chance to-- No, that was a bridge much too far after everything else that had taken place that day.

“Hey man,” he said, shaking himself, “I didn’t mean to act like a dick. It’s just been a really long day. If you cut me some slack, I promise to not freak anyone out again, OK? I’ll be 100 percent safe and boring, hunter’s honor.”

The angel regarded him with an obvious skepticism for several seconds before he nodded, though not without some reluctance.

“I suppose that is acceptable,” he all but grumbled.

“Cool,” Dean smiled, “Anyway, you guys worry too much. The way I took out that ghost? I’m basically a badass. Ain’t nothing gonna mess with me.”

  



	9. What Is...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John executes a dangerous plan, only to face dire and irreversible consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. In addition to life jumping in the way (no excuse, I know), it was definitely a challenge writing from John's perspective. Anyway, enjoy, see the end notes for spoiler-ish warnings, and sorry for all the things I am about to do to these characters.

**May 1993**

 

John could feel Bobby glaring at the back of his head, could almost hear the grumbling no doubt pressing against the man's teeth.

“Say your piece or stow it better, Singer,” he sighed, tightening his grip on the wheel and keeping his eyes fixed upon the increasingly dim road ahead. The sun was nearly set and they were all three of them, Bobby, Bill, and himself, piled into the Impala to head toward what John hoped would be the end of what had begun in 1972. He hadn't lied per-say, to any of them really. It had been been the absolute truth when he told them that he'd caught a big hunt in Iowa. The details were where he'd gotten a little murky, like how Iowa meant a place barely 45 minutes away from home, or how the bulk of the road trip would be dedicated to grabbing Bill from Nebraska and circling back almost to where they had started. These specifics had come later, once he and the men were well and truly on their way and Mary had no way catching wind of the real plan. For their part, his friends had been stunned into varied types of silence, one contemplative and the other of far a less passive nature.

“It's a damned fool idea,” Bobby muttered gruffly, “The part about leavin’ Mary out of it especially.”

“What's that say about you?” John countered, “Since you haven't once tried to stop the car now that everything's out in the open.”

“Yeah well,” his friend sighed, “Turns out I'm an expert when it comes to foolishness.” There was a bitterness in his voice and John would bet money that its origins lay in the falling out between him and Rufus that he refused to discuss at length. All any of them knew was whatever had gone down in Omaha was bad enough that Rufus refused to be in the same state as Bobby, let alone the same car.

“Come on now,” Bill attempted sympathetically, “I'm sure whatever happened, Ru--”

“Besides,” Bobby cut in harshly, “Someone who knows just how sideways bad plans can go’s gotta be around to make sure you two idjits don't get yourselves dead. You got families, in case you forgot.”

“Family is what this is all about,” John said, with far more surety than he actually felt. There was no question that what he was doing needed to get done in a hurry, but he would be lying to himself if he denied the guilt curling its way through all his justifications for keeping his spouse in the dark. After all, it had been his wife’s careful research that had provided the opening he needed for a shot at the demon who had blown their lives wide open. Without her he wouldn't have known the creature’s timeline, that it collected on it's deals every ten years, and that the children it went after were always six months old. It was this information that had guided his own investigation and led him to incidents just shy of the patterns, ones where everything lined up except the absence of a fiery conclusion. On little more than a hunch, he had tracked these families down and discovered there were others who had managed to survive the demon deals unscathed, not by fleeing but by complying with the entity’s wishes. More importantly, he had learned the thing’s name: Azazel.

Initially he’d kept this revelation to himself, reasoning that after all the dead ends they’d hit over the years he needed to make sure this wasn’t another one, and that he would be able to formulate a solid plan if the discovery did in fact prove useful. This logic kept well enough given that details on demons and how to track a specific one were maddeningly sparse, but then events had converged in a way that had put the slow creep of his progress into overdrive and got him vaguely wondering if things like luck actually did exist.

First had been the coven he busted up in Illinois, one that left behind a spell book detailing a ritual to not only summon a demon, but bend it to the summoner’s will. The spell in question required a missing sigil to properly target what he was after, but he had miraculously uncovered it soon enough in an obscure latin text permanently borrowed from a haunted house in Louisiana. Not long after that, demonic omens had begun appearing in close proximity to the surviving families, and the decision of how and when to use his discovery had all at once been made for him. The order of the disturbances seemed to have everything to do with the affected children's birth dates, which, by his reckoning, would place Sam next in the line up. If the recent cattle mutilations skirting South Dakota state lines were any indication, his theory was right on the money and something was quickly making its way toward his family's doorstep, something he had every intention of heading off at the pass before it had a chance to get any closer.

“Not to rile anything up worse than it already is,” Bill ventured, “But Singer’s kinda got a point about Mary. I mean, why are you keeping her out of the loop? I’d’ve figured something like this, she’d get first crack, no exceptions.”

“I’m not cutting her out because I want to,” John explained, “And sure, she’ll be pissed that she wasn’t the one to take this thing out, but I can live with that. What I can’t live with is her getting herself killed trying to drag us all out of the life once and for all, leaving our boys orphans because of how bad we both want it done.”

“And you think throwing yourself on the cross is the best option in a worst case scenario?” the man beside him pressed, frowning with concern. John didn’t think that was the case; he knew. As much as he hated it, his stints away from home had become lengthier and more frequent, as the time it took for him to transition back from hunter and killer to husband and father seemed to take longer and longer. It was getting to the point where he spent more days and hours holed up in a motel with a bottle and his research than he did in his own house with his wife and sons. The space between him and his family was growing with each year, and he figured he was either going to put a stop to the trend once and for all with Azazel’s death, or one day wake up and find them beyond his reach altogether.

“Don’t forget us,” Bobby snarked, “He’s more than happy to throw our asses into the fire right along with his own. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“And like I said, Singer,” John smirked wryly, “Shouldn’t have taken your sweet time speaking up if you didn’t want to come.”

“Maybe we’re all picking the lesser of two evils,” the bearded man conceded, “Pretty sure Mary and Ellen’d tan my hide if I jumped ship and left you two to the trenches, not that I ain’t ready for both of ‘em to swing on me even if we do pull this off.”

“Nice to see you’re on board then, because we’re just about where we need to be.” John turned the car down an old dirt road, and before long a ramshackle barn came into view.

“You sure whoever owns this place isn’t gonna be pissed that we’re using it?” Bill asked warily as the Impala came to rest on the hard-packed dirt in front of the weathered wooden structure.

“No owner to be pissed,” John replied, “Land’s been for sale for half a year. We’re good to go.”

“Oh goody,” he heard Bobby mumble from the back seat. They piled out of the car and immediately began gathering what they needed from its trunk. Arms laden with equipment, the three of them made their way to the barn’s interior, a gloomy, desolate space empty of any and everything beyond a few moldy crates, splintering tables, and a sagging hayloft. John didn’t much care for it in terms of tactical potential, but it was the closest place he could find to where the most recent series of demonic disturbances had occurred. He wasn’t sure if the spell worked better with proximity, but he felt it couldn’t hurt.

They went about their preparations in silence, first hanging up a few battery powered lanterns to work by in the fading light, and then etching a devil’s trap into the soil at the center of the room. Once each of them was satisfied with the protections they had arranged, John dragged a workbench to the apex of the trap and began readying the ritual while the others loaded their weapons.

“Here,” he heard Bobby say just as he began drawing the demon’s sigil on the bench’s surface. He glanced up and found the man standing beside him, a shotgun tucked under one arm and his free hand outstretched toward him. A black waxed cord with a metal token attached to it dangled from his fingers, and when John took hold of it for a closer look, he saw that the charm was some kind of pentagram enveloped in a sun.

“Well don’t just ogle the damn thing,” Bobby instructed firmly, “Put it on.”

“What is it?” John asked, fumbling with the pendants string to hastily tie it around his neck.

“In theory,” he explained, “protection.”

“Like that thing you helped Sam give Dean?”

“This one’s a little more specific. S’posed to ward off demonic possession.”

“That so? How’d you know to bring it?”

“Not easy to forget it at home considering I’ve been wearing it just about everyday for almost two decades now.” John frowned and, shaking his head, moved to undo the knot he’d just pulled tight.

“Bobby,” he protested, “I’m not gonna--”

“Can it Winchester,” he interrupted, raising a hand to stay him, “We might be all in this together, but you’re the one calling up the bear to poke it. I figure, you need as much armor as you can get.”

  
“Yeah,” he attempted once more, “But--”

“You said this was for family, so just wear the damn thing for them. Make it out of this so your kids can have their dad back.” At this, Bobby fixed him with a hard, knowing stare. Of course the growing separation between him and his family was more than a little noticeable from the outside. Sighing, he let go of the cord and allowed the heavy metal charm to fall back against his chest.

“Good call,” his friend agreed, “How's the spell comin’ along?”

“Almost ready,” John replied, “All that's left is to light the candles, spill a little blood, and say the words.”

“Let's get this show on the road then,” he concluded, hefting the shotgun into a more defensive grip, “You good to go, Harvelle?”

“As I’ll ever be,” the other man huffed somewhat nervously from the position he’d taken on the left side of the barn’s wide double doors, “Though, I ain’t gonna lie and say I don’t wish we had more than rock salt for ammo.”

“Just to be clear,” Bobby added, “The salt shells are to lay cover fire while we haul ass if this job goes to shit. Nothing I know of has much stopping power when it comes to these things.”

“Unless you count that revolver Elkins used to go on about,” John tossed in as he lit the candles he had placed along the sigil, “That one he said belonged to--”

“Thought I wouldn’t have to hear more about that nutjob’s magic pistol after we cut ties back in ‘89, Bobby groused.

“Maybe we’ll bring it up once I’ve got him trapped,” John suggested earnestly, “Either way, I’m gonna look him in those damned yellow eyes and make him tell me how to end him.”

“And you’re sure that’s how the spell works?” Bill asked for probably the hundredth time, “That it gets brought here and forced to do what you say?”

“I’ve got this backwards and forwards,” he insisted, “Have for nearly a month now.”

“And I’ve got an exorcism incantation ready to go just in case you’ve got it more backwards than you think,” Bobby reassured, circling the devil’s trap to stand several feet to Bill’s right.

“Ye of little faith,” he muttered, drawing his bowie knife from the sheath on his belt and rolling up several layers of sleeves. He supposed it was a touch hypocritical for him to be bringing up faith after years spent at the bottom of a flask and in denial of anything beyond the bare facts he could see, touch, or prove through experience, even with his knowledge of the supernatural. But tonight he needed to believe that they had a real shot here, that his family had a chance of getting out from under the cloud that had quietly hung over it even before it had even been fully formed. He was by no means a praying man, and he had never once felt anything but distrust and suspicion toward thing his oldest son claimed to be watching over them, but as he dragged the sharp edge of his blade across the meat of his forearm and prepared to say the words the ritual required, he sent a silent entreaty out to whatever cared enough to listen, Castiel included.

“Get ready, gentleman,” he bellowed, bloody arm dripping into the basin of herbs he had gathered, “Here goes: _Attenrobendum eos, ad consiendrum--_ ” There was a flash of lightning and an accompanying rumble of thunder overhead, almost like a response or warning interruption.

“Balls,” he heard Bobby grumble.

“ _Ad ligandum eos, potiter et solvendum, et ad,_ ” he continued, shouting over the sudden cacophony, “ _congregontum eos, coram me!_ ” The incantation was met with a final, ear splitting boom, and the lesser pop of the lanterns’ bulbs shattering in a shower of sparks. Then, as quickly as it had started, the signs of the violently approaching storm cut off, dousing the rundown shelter in silence and a dimness only mildly countered by waning candlelight. Darkness aside, it was impossible to miss the man now standing at the center of the carefully constructed devil’s trap. At a first glance, he didn’t look like much, standing a full head shorter than John and dressed in clothing no different than his own. However, his almost inexplicable presence and the familiar glow of his yellow eyes told him everything he needed to know about what he now faced.

“My, my, my,” Azazel chuckled, “John Winchester. Now, I know it’s been a while, but you went all out my friend! I hope I’m not underdressed for the party.” He turned to regard the other two men curiously, and something in his calm demeanor had John’s hackles rising beyond what he had anticipated.

“Listen up, you son of a bitch!” he barked pointing with the knife still gripped in his hand, “I'm the one who called you, so I'm the one you're gonna answer to.” Azazel slowly twisted back to him, grin still firmly in place.

“Ooh, daddy,” he growled, “So domineering, I love it! But I’m pretty sure neither of us is here for all that much foreplay. What can I do for you, big man?”

“What you’re gonna do,” John snarled, “is tell me what you want with my family. And then, you’re gonna tell me how to end it, and you, once and for all.”

“Oh is that all?” the demon purred, “Well, the first part’s easy. I don’t give a single damn about your little family, entertaining as they can be.”

“Bullshit. That night ten years ago--”

“That night, sweet mother Mary stuck her nose where she promised me she wouldn’t. If everyone had just stayed in bed, Samuel and I could have gotten acquainted nice and quiet, and nothing would have needed to burn. But you know that already, don’t you? With all the research you’ve done?” The cruel twist on John’s lips and the harsh command he’d had at the ready stalled, and he missed the beat the demon had given him to respond.

“What?” Azazel resumed, “You thought you could visit my pet projects, throw my name around, and expect me not to take notice? You know, I should be thanking you. Ever since we first met, you Winchesters have had quite a way of staying just out of reach. Even with all the latest, top notch detective work, I could only get whiff of a possibility of where you all had run off to. It was all so very frustrating, particularly when I've been planning visits to all my good little boys and girls. But then, lo and behold, my business trip to Iowa pokes at something too close for comfort, and that big, dumb, impulsive streak of yours gets you right where I want you.”

“Oh yeah?” John spat, somewhat regaining his footing, “The way things look right now, I've got _you,_ asshole.”

“Got me?” the man repeated, clearly amused, “Who do you think set things up so you would find that little ritual? Lost a few more than decent lackeys when I let the dime drop on that coven, but it was high time I drew you out for a chat. Took you long enough, by the way. I was starting to get worried you were too dense to figure it all out.” Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Bobby stiffen and toss a sidelong glance at Bill.

“You’re lying,” he insisted.

“Most of the time, yeah,” the demon agreed, “but not this go ‘round. And in the spirit of that honesty, I’m gonna go ahead and answer your big asks, partially anyway. Can’t give everything away.”

“You forget how this spell of yours works?” John countered, “You’re gonna tell me everything and then some.”

”Oh, we’ll get to that in a minute. First and foremost, I got no plans to hurt little Sammy. Matter of fact, what I’ve got cookin’ needs him in a big way, and if you and that wife of yours can just let all of that be, no one else needs to get hurt.”

“I’ll kill you before I let you anywhere near any of them ever again.” Azazel pouted and sighed dramatically.

“I thought as much,” he replied, his tone mockingly disappointed, “Which brings me to the second thing you wanted to know, that bit about stopping me and what’s going down. Short answer? You can’t and you won’t. I mean I suppose there’s ways, but none you’ll be able to figure out or get to in time.” There was a faint rumbling beneath their feet, one that had just about every alarm imaginable going off in his head, but his desperation and mounting rage at the creature before him managed to drown all of it out and spur him onward.

“Tell me, demon!” he bellowed, “What do you want with my boy?”

“John,” Bobby interjected as the tremors intensified, “We oughtta-”

“That an order, soldier?” Azazel called back, “Because there’s something else you should know about that ritual.”

“John!” Bill tried more forcefully, taking several steps toward him.

“Azazel” John continued undeterred, “I command--”

“But you can’t!” the demon laughed gleefully, “That’s what I’m trying to tell you! That spell’s definitely got what it takes to ask me out, but when it comes to locking me down, well…” He trailed off, mouth curling into a smirk just shy of a sneer as the quaking all around them reached new heights, and long jagged cracks began to wend their way through the barn’s dirt floor. Before any of them could scramble to react, the ground making up their carefully constructed trap split in two and the demon blinked out of sight, bringing the impromptu earthquake and all of John’s plans to a screeching halt.

“No!” he cried, slamming a fist into the workbench.

“We gotta get out of here,” Bobby asserted through clenched teeth, “Now.”

“Come on man,” Bill added, sidling up to him and resting a hand on his shoulder, “You can get to kicking yourself once we’ve put some distance between him and us.”

“I was so close” John objected with a rough shake of his head, “And I let the damn thing slip--”An arm snaked around his neck from behind, choking away his words and pulling him flush against the being he’s thought had escaped him.

“Don’t worry, Johnny-boy,” Azazel rasped into his ear, “I’m keeping nice and close.” He felt the cord of Bobby’s pendant slip from around his neck and then the hard line of his attacker’s hold instantaneously unclenching from around his throat.

As the presence behind him fell away, he planted his feet and made himself ready to arc his knife backward into whatever remained, only to be further thwarted by something dark billowing around him and darting past his open lips and nostrils.

For a moment, there was nothing but putrid sulfur and burning inside and out, as if every part of him was being consumed by fire and ash, and with each passing second he felt his control slipping away. Soon, his struggles became little more than a twitch, his screams muffled grunts through clenched teeth, and by the time the physical agony subsided his body was no longer his to command.

“Whew!” he heard and felt his commandeered voice utter, “You fit like a glove John. If I wasn’t so fond of what I’ve already got, you’d be my number one.”

“John?” Bill called, drawing the demon’s borrowed gaze and John could see his friend’s face pale with both fear and confusion. His legs took a careful step toward the other man, then abruptly stilled when a shot rang out and peppered his back with a piercing spray of rock salt. The pain was stunning, enough to have brought John to his knees and rip a scream from his throat had he been himself. Instead, the thing driving him rolled his shoulders and rattled out a low chuckle.

“Get out of there Bill!” Bobby shouted from behind him, punctuating his command with a pump of his shotgun.

“Ah, human bravery,” Azazel mused, turning John to face the source of the attack, “How very… Boring. But high marks for effort.

“ _Exorciamus te_ ,” his friend replied gruffly, leveling his gun at him as he spoke, “ _omnis immundus spirtus_ \--”

_‘Damn it, Bobby’_ he tried to shout in vain, ‘ _run!_ ’

“He should, shouldn’t he?” Azazel replied aloud. He flicked a hand out toward the bearded man like he was little more than an annoyance, and sent him flying through the clapboard wall of the barn’s right side.

“Learning curve’s pretty steep in the big leagues, Bob-o,” he rumbled in John's voice. A second shot roared through the enclosure, igniting a fresh agony in the meat of his shoulder and the side of his neck. Without even a reactionary flinch, his body swiveled toward this latest assault just in time to see Bill retreating to where Bobby had been thrown.

“Uh, uh, uh!” Azazel admonished, raising an arm once more. Rather than lift into the air, Bill was jerked sideways and pinned to a post just shy of the hunter-sized hole in the wall. John felt his lips curl into as smile as he involuntarily stalked toward the captive man, who struggled as of bound by invisible rope.

“Winchester,” Bill huffed as John came to stand before him, “If you're in there, you've got to fight this damn thing!”

“Oh he's in here,” the demon replied for him, “But he's not up for the brawl it would take to get back behind the wheel. Take that as some consolation for this next part.” His treacherous grip tightened around his bowie knife before plunging it into Bill’s gut. He screamed alongside his friend, but it did little more than echo through his imprisoned mind.

“That,” Azazel explained, “was for your part in this idiotic little scheme. A lesson if you will. This next thing, however, is just about making a call.”

“John,” Bill gritted through bloodstained teeth, “Tell my girls--” John’s blade slashed across the man's throat, effectively cutting off his entreaty, and for a moment all of John’s fitful internal struggles were shocked into a full stop.

Everything that was unfolding before him was his fault. Bill was dead, perhaps Bobby as well, and it was all because he had been too eager to rush headlong into what he had so single-mindedly pictured as the solution to his every hardship for nearly a decade. With all the horror of his consequences currently before him, dozens of better options arose to further condemn him, wiser and kinder choices he could have made for himself and the people he loved, each and all of them beautiful and just out of reach.

The feel of something heavy and unfamiliar suddenly clutched in his previously free hand jarred him from his realizations, and he found his gaze darting between the gruesomely dimmed cast of Bill’s now half-closed eyes and the inexplicable sight of a his stolen extremities pressing an odd goblet to the seeping throat wound. Once the cup was almost full to the brim, the demon turned away from the slumping body and began a ritual of its own.

“ _Tire quiero patem me a di_ ,” it chanted, stirring a finger through the dark liquid. After a beat of silence, the blood began to froth and a series of faint, distorted sounds that John couldn’t quite make out seemed to whisper out of it.

“I’ve found them.” Azazel said, “They’re in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.” The hissing resumed just as John began screaming and struggling anew.

‘ _Stay away from my family!’_ He bellowed to no outward effect, ‘ _You hear me, you son of a bitch? You touch one hair on any of their heads--_ ’

“Meet me there,” the demon replied as if John wasn’t speaking at all, “And feel free not to rush too much. Daddy here’s got a sweet ride and I fully intend to enjoy it.” The blood’s surface stilled after a final, parting hiss, and Azazel unceremoniously upended the contents of the goblet with a satisfied sigh.

“Huh,” he hummed, giving the barn a final once-over “Looks like we lost track of young Robert. But I think I’m in a good enough mood to let it ride, be charitable even. After all, one example should be enough for tonight.” He stole a quick glance at Bill, who collapsed to the ground in a lifeless heap, and even through all of his desperate rage John could feel naked shame rip through him.

“I’d save up some of that guilt, Johnny boy,” the demon suggested blithely as he strode out toward the impala. “Ya know? Leave some for when things get really fired up back at the ‘ol homestead.”

 

* * *

 

 Castiel cursed himself as he sped away from the barn and toward his only means of cleaning up the mess he had just witnessed. He would never have called his vigil lax, but he had to admit his observation of John had been somewhat disproportionate when compared to the attention paid to the rest of the Winchester family. He always made certain to keep abreast of the man’s location when he was away, particularly on the rare occasions when he traveled alone and Castiel was unable to use one of the other hunters as a means to circumvent the warding that kept all the Winchesters hidden from angels and demons alike. That said, each hunt had become exceedingly similar, almost to the point of a kind of tedium that bucked the notion of constant surveillance. As time wore on, every endeavor was more of the same: kill a monster, drink both in celebration and spite of a success that was only a shadow of the victory he craved, and then detox to the point of renewed social acceptability. It was hardly anything Castiel felt he needed to witness repeatedly, particularly when to do so on a regular basis would mean leaving his post at the side of the children destined to be instruments of the end times.

But clearly there _had_ been something vital to miss in those private and routine moments. All these years had slowly brought the Winchester patriarch to an plan of action so idiotically foolish that his own doubts warranted the unprecedented prayer that had alerted Castiel to the disaster currently unfolding. In many ways, he had been too late, particularly in the case of William Harvelle, but if he wanted to make any progress toward preventing complete calamity, he would have to focus on what was still salvageable, and the means with which to undertake such a task.

Though he was able to make the trip in what most humans would perceive as the blink of an eye, it seemed to take far too long for him to reach the modest home in Ann Arbor that Gabriel had long ago maneuvered the Novaks into, enough that an impatient huff escaped him as he landed in the dwelling's living room. With his ability to sense his vessel blocked by all of the warding he and his brother had placed upon it, he eschewed any angelic workings in favor of a physical sweep of the domicile, one that quickly uncovered both of Jimmy's parents but not Jimmy himself. By the time he reached what he intuited to be Jimmy's empty bedroom, he was staring down the woefully unexpected obstacle of having his means of action far removed from his grasp.

A spike of frustration sang through his already compromised composure, but he managed to keep what remained of it as he searched for clues as to where his vessel may have gone. It was the weekend, and he knew that adolescents, Dean in particular, often spent these days away from home, fixated by some mindless distraction or another. That said, Castiel hadn't the faintest idea of what human diversion Jimmy may have been driven to, and nothing about his abundantly tidy room presented any obvious indications of interest, or any sign of recent activity at all for that matter. It was almost as if he were away for--

College.

The word jumped out from dozens of past conversations bandied about by both Mary and John in terms of the boys’ futures, simultaneously elucidating his circumstances and presenting further complications. It was far too vague a term to point him in any specific direction, and the time he had to discern where he should even begin was growing increasingly short with every passing moment. Muttering yet another curse and shoving all notion of censure from his mind, he prayed to the only being who held the potential to assist him. After several moments passed without response, he began ratcheting up the intensity of his call, and was almost on the verge of a whistle when Gabriel appeared beside him, looking irritably confused.

“Well that’s funny,” he mused, “I don't see any fire.”

“Fire?” Castiel asked, suddenly confused as well.

“Yeah,” he replied sharply, “Considering the burst of constant and oh so annoying prayers, I expected something to be on fire or under siege.”

“Gabriel--”

“But no, here we are safe as houses, in a house--”

“Gabriel--”

“And-- hey, hang on a sec. Who's house is this?”

“That's what I have been trying to tell you. This is the Novak’s home, the one you told me about after you warded my vessel. I have a need for him again.”

“You're telling me things are suddenly bad enough to pull the kid off the bench?”

“Yes! I wouldn’t have been so insistent otherwise!”

“Hey, hey, hey! Watch the tone. I came into this blind, all to help you.” Castiel paused, heaving a contrite sigh.

“Forgive me,” he offered, “But the Winchesters are in danger and there isn’t much time for niceties.”

“Alright, don’t get your wings in a twist,” Gabriel demurred, “Go ahead, ‘splain it to me Cassie. We talking more monster stuff gone bad? Burglars?”

“Azazel himself,” he replied gruffly.

“Seriously? We’re at defcon one outta nowhere?”

“The majority of the blame lies with me. John Winchester has been investigating the demon’s movements more extensively than I initially believed, under the guise of regular hunting trips. Tonight he used a summoning ritual an ill-advised confrontation, armed only with a few paltry weapons and a pair of similarly helpless hunters. From what I heard, Azazel had already been planning to visit the children he had tampered with a decade ago, but John’s interference has… Exacerbated the situation immensely.

“Fabulous. Can’t say I disagree with with this being your screw up, but a lecture’s just about the least productive thing we could do now. Anyway, we probably should’ve seen this coming. John Winchester never handled this side of the world all that well, so why should he start now? So what’s the damage? Anyone make it out of that little field trip alive?”

“The loss of life was grave, but minimal. Last I saw, both John and Bobby Singer were still alive, but Azazel is in possession of John’s body and headed toward Sioux Falls as we speak.”

“Which explains why you need to hop back into good ‘ol Jimbo, but not why you had to call me to do it. What’s the matter? You spent so long out of the action that you forgot how to do it?”

“What’s the matter is that he is no longer at this address.” For the first time since he had arrived, Gabriel glanced over the bedroom with a measure of scrutiny.

“Well shucks!” he exclaimed, “Looks like your boy left the nest. They grow up so fast.”

“Gabriel,” Castiel insisted, not bothering to keep the agitation from his voice, “I need--”

“I got you, I got you,” the archangel interrupted placatingly, “Gimme a sec.” He disappeared before Castiel could respond, leaving him to contend with the growing unease his inaction was causing him. Every moment spent at a standstill put Azazel closer to his charges. The apocalyptic possibilities were enough of a concern on their own considering Castiel’s understanding of the demon’s plan did not include an accurate timeline. For all he knew, this was the next big step toward the end days his brothers were planning. But more than that, he was genuinely worried for the safety of the family, and what terrible things it could mean for the highly mortal beings he had come to care about, if and when they were confronted by demons. He knew Sam was of some dark importance to them and perhaps had some chance at physical safety, but that night nearly ten years ago had proven Mary to be dispensable in their eyes. The fact that Dean was Michael’s chosen vessel should, in theory, spare him his share of torment, but Castiel could only wonder at whether or not Lucifer had informed Azazel of the boy’s own role his plans, and how much or little of a deterrent that would be when it came to inflicting harm. His venture was, at least in part, about punishing John’s insolence, and he remembered all too well how irrational the prince of hell could become whilst in the grasp of vengeance.

The thought of any of the horrid punishments he knew the creature to be capable of befalling any of the Winchesters, Dean especially, had him practically vibrating with a long dormant rage. It was a potent and alarming enough feeling that he was nearly on the verge of seeking out Gabriel to see what was taking so long, when all of a sudden his brother was back at his side.

“I got what you need, Cas 'ol buddy,” he said, smirk firmly in place, “Mommy wasn't the easiest nut to crack, but I worked my mind mojo and she was putty in my hands.”

“Where is he?” Castiel asked, ignoring his sibling's self-congratulatory innuendos.

“Right, all about the business,” he sighed, “University of St. Francis in Joliet, Illinois. He's living in Marian--”

“Illinois? Again? After the care spent relocating him from Pontiac?”

“Hey, heart wants what the heart wants I guess, even if it's stupid and life threatening. Now, are you gonna listen to the rest of the address or not?” Castiel fell silent and nodded his assent.

“Good,” Gabriel continued, “Marian Residence Hall on the south end of the campus. Two floors up, last door on the left. Now go get 'em, tiger.”

“Thank you,” he replied, turning away to leave.

“Hey Cas?” Gabriel called to stay him, “Remember, you aren't juiced up like you used to be, OK? I’ll keep an eye on things in case you go full Sputnik on this one, but for the most part I can't step in. Too much risk of demon tattle tales and Michael's sporadically watchful eye finding out I'm actually interested for once.”

“I had assumed as much.”

“What I'm saying is, don't do anything moronic for the sake of duty or blah blah blah Winchesters.”

“I understand.”

“Sure you do.” The archangel’s tone and expression took a turn for the skeptical, but he stepped back and waved him away nonetheless. Wasting no further time, Castiel took flight and soon found himself within the dwelling his brother had described.

It was a smaller quarters than where he had first searched for his vessel, though somehow all the more spacious given it's sparse decor. Unlike the bedroom at the Novak home, this enclosure sported fewer creature comforts, and held little more furniture than a wardrobe, desk, and bed. More importantly, it contained an older but unmistakable James Novak, who sat atop his mattress, quietly poring over a scattering of books and papers.

“Jimmy,” he intoned as gently as his sense of urgency would allow. The young man started, eyes widening as he glanced up from his work and then growing larger when no visible source presented itself.

“Wha-” he mumbled, eyes still scanning the room, “Who's--”

“It’s Castiel,” the angel supplied, “I need your assistance once more.”

“C-Castiel?” Jimmy ventured cautiously, “From-- from when I was a kid?.”

“Yes and we have to hurry.” Jimmy let out a small laugh and ran a hand over his face, something like relief washing across his features.

“I can’t believe it,” he beamed, “I mean, I can-- I have, even though sometimes it felt like all of it was some kind of crazy dream. I never stopped thinking-- hoping really-- that it was real. Honestly, you’re the reason I kept up with my studies in the church, and joined the theological program here. I even started researching Enochian…” He had been on the verge of cutting Jimmy’s babbling short, but the mention of his native language drew Castiel’s attention to the collection of notes surrounding his vessel. The sight of the familiar characters caused an unexpected and warm fondness to swell within him, followed by a not-so-fleeting ache of longing for the days when he had occasion to almost exclusively converse in this mother tongue. But he did not have the luxury of time to ruminate on any of these warring emotions. As it stood, there was every chance he would be too late if he dallied much longer.

“There isn’t time for us to become reacquainted,” he insisted, “The present situation is far more dire than when we first met and speed is of the utmost importance.”

“Demons again?” Jimmy asked, shifting the book he had been reading out of his lap with a frown.

“Yes,” he confirmed, “But this time with vengeance on their minds, and perhaps worse plans beyond that. I need your consent so that I may minimize the damage already done, and keep those currently unscathed from harm.”

“And, once you do that, it’ll be like before? I’ll just come back to the dorm like nothing ever happened?” Castiel hesitated in his response. It had been easier to make vague promises of safety and normalcy when he had been at the height of his power and distance from humanity, when he could still view the boy as an instrument. The intervening years had altered his perception in many ways, and instilled a kind of guilt in perpetuating such life threatening falsehoods.

“As I said, circumstances are worse than before,” he explained, “And that translates into more risk, more danger. I can’t guarantee either of us will come out of this unscathed.”

“But, not going means… People die?” Jimmy countered, biting his lip, “Kids, families?”

“Perhaps even more than that, yes,” he replied, “But this is your decision to make. No matter what I wish, I cannot force it upon you.”

Jimmy opened his mouth to reply, but a new voice from outside of his room cut him off.

“Yo, Novak!” it called, “You still coming out with us tonight?”

“I--” he began, brow furrowing, “I’m not sure. I think I should probably just stay in. Uh, finish studying for finals, stuff like that.”

“Aw come on!” the voice groaned, “You’ve been in those books non-stop! At least take a break to be the good influence on all us wayward souls!” Jimmy pursed his lips, eyes narrowing contemplatively.

“I heard Amelia’s gonna be there!” the voice added in a sing-song lilt. A blush spread across Jimmy’s cheeks and he ducked his head in spite of being unseen by one party and irrevocably exposed to the other.

“I’ll try,” he relented, shrugging half-heartedly, “But I’m not making any promises, alright?”

“Suit yourself, bookworm. And don’t blame me if Amelia finds a placeholder.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jimmy called back, “Like I said, I’ll try. But if I don’t show up, don’t come busting in here like last time. Doors exist for a reason!”

“Right, wouldn’t want to catch you making out with your books. Later!” The voice fell silent and both Castiel and Jimmy listened closely for the sound of retreating steps before resuming their conversation.

“Am I correct in assuming you have made your decision?” Castiel queried, “Or did I misread the exchange?

“Yeah,” Jimmy whispered with a slow nod, “I mean, yes, I’ve decided. I’ll help you

“I can’t promise you’ll return in time for any social engagements,” Castiel offered, hoping to sound conciliatory for the boy’s sake, Nor can I guarantee--”

“My safety, Castiel,” Jimmy concluded more firmly, “I understand. But I think--I know, this is more important. I trust you.” Something in his sincerity tugged at him, much more so than when it had first been offered nearly a decade ago. He hadn’t spent much time thinking on how age would alter the boy, but he had never imagined that his faith in him would remain as staunch as it had been in childhood, particularly when confronted with the naked facts of what being his vessel could mean this time around. Apparently, even after years removed from the worst humanity had to offer, the decency and bravery it was capable of still had the ability to surprise him.

“Now,” Jimmy went on, resolutely, “what do I have to do? The same thing as last time?”

“Yes,” he agreed, “Just as you did before.”

“Alright. Castiel, I agree to be your vessel.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> -Azazel typical, non-con innuendo.  
> -Canon-typical, but graphic depiction of character death.


	10. And What Should Never Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters struggle to survive the colossal fallout of John's failed gambit, and in his efforts to aid them, Castiel relapses into long abandoned behaviors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so so sorry this took as long as it did to come into being. This chapter heavy all the way around, in terms of length, execution and subject matter. Please check the end notes for spoiler-y content warnings and I hope you enjoy (in spite of both the long wait and the terrible things I do to this family).

**MAY 1ST, 1993**  


 

A storm was coming, the smell of ozone wafting strongly enough through the open kitchen window to war with the aroma of the meatloaf that was, so far, not burning in the oven. Satisfied that the shift in scents was unrelated to any impending culinary disasters, Mary continued to scrub the bowls and cutting boards she had used in her preparations, all the while hoping to keep the concerns swirling through her head to a dull roar. Some of them were trifling, motherly worries, like whether or not the boys would be able to make it home from the movies before the downpour began, or if the rain would persist through to tomorrow and force Sam’s birthday festivities indoors. Others were much more dire, nightmarish anxieties that invariably came with belonging to a family of hunters, and being the one forced to stay at home. Of all the things she hated about the life, the waiting ranked fairly high. Waiting was a terrible kind of limbo, where hope was dangerous but outright pessimism managed to be an equally poor choice. Waiting meant washing dishes and sniffing out burning entrees in a feeble attempt at distraction, even when she knew the itch under her skin wouldn't stop until she was presented with an outcome, one way or another.

The unmistakable growl of the Impala’s engine rumbled across the silence, sounding all the more ominous for its resemblance to overdue thunder, and Mary stilled. In a different world, a normal one, there would be relief, maybe even pleasant surprise that her husband was home in time for a family celebration in spite of his assurances to the contrary. As it stood, her instincts kept her grounded in a harsher reality, one where this early return promised nothing good at all. John had been vague about this hunt, a potential haunting by his estimation, but even without all of the pertinent details Mary had been informed enough to know a homecoming this early on didn’t jibe with the plans or destination that had been set forth. Which meant something had gone sideways in a hurry.

Steeling herself for the wide swath of awful possibilities, Mary hastily dried her hands and stepped away from the sink to make her way to the front door. By the time got to the front porch, the car was already parked at the curb alongside their house’s wrought iron fence, and a disheveled-looking woman in a waitress uniform was helping John out of the driver’s seat. If that wasn’t enough of a red flag on its own, her husband was a mess of tiny, bloody puncture wounds across his right side, and Bobby and Bill were nowhere in sight. Things had most definitely taken a turn for the worse.

“What happened?” she called, rushing toward the gate. 

“He saved my life!” the woman--Trisha, if her name tag was anything to go by-- supplied, verging on hysterics as she threw John’s uninjured arm over her shoulders, “If it weren’t for him--”

“Where are the boys?” John broke in raggedly, “D-don’t want them to see me like this.”

“The movies,” Mary returned, the swiftness of her response betraying her mounting dread, “John,  _ what happened?  _ Where are are Bill and Bobby?” He opened his mouth and then pursed his lips closed, shaking his head to look away.

“No,” she said firmly, eyes darting to the backseat of the Impala as if she would find them there through sheer will alone.

“Mare,” John offered, his voice closer than it was before, “I’m--”

“Both of them?” she asked at barely a whisper, turning her focus back to the pair now standing just outside the front gate, “You’re sure?”

“We were,” her husband began, voice leaden with bitter guilt, “We got overwhelmed. I went into this thinking I had it all under control and I just-- we just-- Christ, Mary, I lost ‘em. It was all I could do to get me and Meg here out alive. I swear I--” He broke off with a harsh, choked sound and she could feel his eyes on her, no doubt searching for understanding or even forgiveness. Only, as he had been talking, her attentions had started to wander, her gaze wavering between the apparently incorrect name pinned to the waitress’s lapel, and the bizarre, yet unmistakable pattern of superficial wounds sprayed across John’s neck and shoulder. More than that, she couldn’t help but fixate not on what he was saying, but just how it was being said. Bobby and Bill, men who were essentially family, were dead, and John was speaking from a place of uncharacteristically pure devastation. Everything about it screamed wrong, and in a way she hadn’t felt since the night her parents died. 

“Mary?” John attempted a second time, breaking through her thoughts with a kind of pleading that settled things once and for all, “Honey--” 

“You’re not angry,” she concluded, taking a step back as her epiphany turned her stare cold. 

“What?” he bleated, stiffening against the equally perplexed woman at his side.

“You lose a fight and a couple of men in the process, you’re not broken hearted, you’re furious. Not to mention anything but sober by the end of it all.”

“Of course I’m sober! Damnit, I had to get us home.”

“Right, you and Trish-- Or, no, it was Meg, right? And after you were overwhelmed by what? I’m sorry, but you never said before you left and I just can’t remember which kind of monster specializes in spitting rock salt.” 

“You don’t know what it was like!” Meg or Trish threw out, “They were firing in all directions, trying to get us out. They didn’t mean to hit him.”

“Friendly fire?” Mary puzzled, eyes still locked on her husband’s face, “From Singer and Harvelle? No, never. They would die before they would hurt John. Did they? Die, I mean?”

“Yes,” John insisted, “I saw it with my own two eyes.”

“Did you kill them? You or whoever the hell this is?”

“Babe,” John insisted, “I know you’re upset-”

“Damn right. Who are you? Or, what are you? A shapeshifter?”

“Just calm down.”

“A demon?”

“Mary--”

“Christo.” The waitress flinched, and in spite of her burgeoning suspicions Mary felt the entire bottom drop out of her world. 

“Looks like we’ve been found out pops,” the female demon sighed, her earlier distress replaced with undisguised disdain.

“Yeah, well,” not-John replied, slipping out of her hold with a resigned shrug, “Mary here always was too smart for her own good.” He turned to wink at her, eyes flashing yellow before fading back into more human tones. Mary drew in a sharp breath but held her ground, clinging to every viable appearance of composure while she steered her thoughts toward her next move, and away from the hows and whys that were already plaguing her.

“You’re wondering what it took for us to get here, right?” the demon prodded, flashing John’s teeth in a twisted grin, “I mean, you gotta be, I can see the wheels a-turnin’ in that pretty blonde head of yours.”

“Let him go,” she spat, “You don’t need him anymore, you bast--.”

“Much as I love pet names, Azazel will do just fine,” he corrected,” And I’d be careful with that wording. You just might convince me that this body is dead-weight. Anyway, your man here’s the one who called me up, practically begged me to pop in for a visit, so I figure I oughta stay the course as is. Speaking of, Meg m’dear?”

“Hm?” his companion hummed with a languid tilt of her head.

“Why don’t you do your old man a solid and go pick up the kids?”

“No!” Mary started, only to find herself silenced and rooted to the spot with a wave of her husband’s commandeered hand. The possessed waitress spared her a bored glance and angled a questioning look at the man beside her.

“Just so we’re clear,” she pressed, “You want both boys?”

“Obviously young Samuel is the priority,” Azazel instructed, “But… Let’s agree to keep hearts beating and bodies mostly in one piece.”

“So, in other words,” she pouted, “No fun at all.”

“Not as much as you’d like anyway. Now get to work.” Heaving an impetuous sigh, Meg threw her head back and stretched her mouth wide to eject a cloud of thick, black smoke into the open air. Once the vapor had darted into the darkening storm clouds and out of sight, the waitress’s body crumpled to the ground, revealing a deep, bloody tear beside her spine that was almost certainly fatal. Frozen as she was, Mary could do little more than stare at this latest tragedy, a potential omen of her family’s own impending fate if she couldn’t outwit her demonic captor.  

“That’s kind of a mess, huh?” Azazel noted, frowning down at the woman’s limp form, “How’s about we move all of this inside, avoid a scene? That is, unless you want to add a few innocent cops and neighbors, make this a group thing?” He lifted his gaze to her, lips stretched into a lascivious smile that she could only glare at in response before blinking what she hoped he would understand to be her concession. A bitter staring contest wasn’t going to serve her or her family in this cluster.

“Atta girl!” he crowed with a sharp snap of his fingers. The invisible tension holding her in place dropped away and Mary stumbled forward, struggling against a sudden flood of pins and needles as the feeling returned to her limbs. While she fought to reclaim her footing, Azazel knelt and slung the waitress’ body over his shoulder with an effortless strength at odds with her husband's injuries.

“Well?” he asked, rising and turning to face the iron gate between them, “You gonna let me in, honey?” Tamping down every contrary instinct and desire,, she stepped forward and unlatched the gate, retreating immediately to both allow the demon entry and to keep a measure of distance between them.

“No need to be skittish, darlin’” he asserted in a mocking drawl, “Like I said, the three of us are gonna wait for the kids behind closed doors, maintain our privacy. Now, lead the way, preferably around any clever little traps you might've scattered about the yard, understand?” With a curt twitch of a nod, Mary clenched her jaw and began guiding Azazel toward the house, carefully maneuvering away from devil's traps etched into the walkway’s paving stones and painted beneath the porch steps. In the end, none of them really mattered; as much as she hated drawing the demon into her home, getting him into the house was her best chance, was everyone's best chance. Once they were inside, all bets would be off.

 

* * *

 

“That's the last time I let you pick the movie, Sammy,” Dean groused playfully as the credits began to roll. 

“Aw come on,” Sam protested, twisting toward him in his seat, “It wasn't that bad! Actually, it had some interesting historical--”

“Right,” Dean scoffed, “Because that's what I'm lookin’ for from the Ninja Turtles: a history lesson.” Sam rolled his eyes and turned back to face the screen with a huff that had Dean smirking in victory. He was in a surprisingly good mood after having his night out hijacked by his kid brother, and being forced to sit through the terrible movie he had picked. In part, his humor had been somewhat bolstered by the fact that the film had been the kind of awful one could still laugh at, but he owed the bulk of his cheer to the person sitting next to him, who didn't have any objections to Sam tagging along and who had giggled at the ridiculous plot right along with him. Not to mention, the one who had purposefully brushed their fingers against Dean's no less than five times in the darkened theater, not that he had been counting.

“You two are hilarious,” Jackson grinned, rising out of his seat, “Are we heading out or…?”

“In a few, yeah,” Dean replied, “Dork-o-saurus over here likes to watch the credits.” 

“I just wanna see who did the music,” Sam argued, “and they only show that at the end.”

“No problem,” Jackson said before Dean could get another jab in, “I just gotta go to the bathroom. Meet you guys in the lobby?” Dean nodded and Jackson offered him a small smile before leaving him to wrestle back a goofy grin of his own.

“What’s up with your face?” Sam broke in.

“Huh?” Dean fumbled, rapidly schooling his features, “Nothing! Wh-what’s up with yours?” 

“Now who's the dork?” Sam countered.

“Shut up and watch the stupid credits, bitch.”

“Jerk.” Dean crossed his arms and slouched down in his seat, absentmindedly spinning the ring on his right ring finger as he pretended to focus the list of names crawling across the screen. When Uncle Bobby had given it to him, a gift for joining his school’s young engineers program, he wasn't sure if he was going to wear it. After all, not many boys his age wore much jewelry to begin with and he was already sporting the pendant Sam had gotten him for Christmas. Now, he was glad for the fidgeting and distraction it provided while he attempted to appear unbothered by his brother’s too-keen powers of observation. Smiles and grazing touches aside, Dean and his friendship with Jackson were nowhere close to a point where Sammy's prying was welcome, not when definitions,  understanding, and even reciprocation were still foggy at best.

Once the credits were finished, the boys made their way up the aisle of the now empty theater to the exits at its rear, and by the time they got to the hallway Dean’s bladder was insisting on a pit-stop  of its own. 

“Told you not to drink all that soda!” Sam chided, practically vibrating smugness.

“Yeah, great, you’re a living psychic hotline,” Dean grumbled as they made a beeline for the bathrooms, “Now come on.”

“Come on what?” his brother asked, stopping just shy of the entryway to lean against the wall beside it, “I don’t have to go.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And I’m not going in there to wait with you like a baby.”

Dean rolled his eyes, shifting from foot to foot in an effort to keep his needs at bay,“Right, you’re a full grown almost ten year old now, I forgot.”

“More than that” Sam protested, “Anyway, I’ve been walking from school to the library, by myself, since before winter break, so I think I can handle waiting outside while you take a whiz.” Dean cut his eyes at him threateningly, but his brother held his ground, raising his chin and crossing his arms in clear defiance. Were it not for his increasingly dire need to use the facilities Dean would have waited him out, but circumstances being what they were, Sam had the upper hand.

“Fine!” he exclaimed, “But you better be right here when I get out, got it?”

“Dude,” Sam replied, “I’m not--”

“Don’t dude me,” he shot back, “You stay put and if anyone so much as looks at you funny, you come get me, alright? Anything happens to you… Dad’ll kill me, probably for real.” In spite of the hard-line he had meant to present, a narrow thread of pleading worked its way into his tone, and both his and Sam’s bravado simultaneously faltered. It had been several years since his brother’s playful disappearing act, and the confrontation that followed, but the day had left its mark on both of them, one that time and Mary’s careful reassurances couldn’t erase. 

“I’ll be here, promise,” Sam assured, gaze briefly dropping to his shoes, “Now, uh, hurry up. Ya know, before you pee your pants.” Clenching his jaw to mask the earlier cracks in his reproach, Dean leveled a final withering stare at him and shoved his way past the bathroom’s swinging wooden door.

The bank of urinals was to the immediate left of the entrance and Dean stalked over to the nearest fixture to take care of business, his initial urgency and the relief that followed dulling his awareness beyond the two sensations. Once he was finished and zipped back up, he turned toward the sinks at the opposite side of the enclosure and the boy that had likely been leaning against them the entire time. 

“Holy--! “ Dean gasped in surprise.  

Jackson chuckled and shook his head, “Not exactly.”

“What the hell, man?” he huffed, resting a hand over his heart, “If I hadn’t gone before, I think you would’ve scared the piss outta me.”   
“Lucky for us both then, I guess.” 

“So, what? You were just waiting in here to scare me or something?” 

“Or something.” Jackson pushed off the nearest sink with a shrug and drifted closer, an unusual mischief dancing in his eyes. 

Dean swallowed heavily, “Wh-What do you mean?” 

“I mean,” he began smoothly, now near enough to touch “That I was waiting for you, but not to scare you.”

“That’s--uh,” Dean sputtered, forcing a laugh, “Guess Sam wasn’t the only one that noticed how much soda I had during--”

“You like me, right?” Both Dean’s brain and tongue froze, leaving him to gape at his friend for a handful of taut seconds.

“Uh,” he offered once his mind saw fit to let him speak again, “I--”

“Because,” Jackson went on, inching even closer, “I like you. A lot, actually.

“I--I mean,” Dean attempted, “I mean, yeah. We’re friends, so--”

“More than friends, Dean. Understand?” He raised an eyebrow expectantly and Dean could only manage a faint a faint nod, his brain once again refusing to operate any higher functions. 

“You sure?” Jackson asked wryly, “I can explain it better if you want.” He glanced down to Dean’s mouth, and when their gazes next met Jackson closed the distance between them, pressing their lips together in a gentle kiss. Dean’s eyes widened and then fluttered shut as the kiss deepened, his heart hammering so hard against his chest that he swore he could hear it. He was overjoyed, overwhelmed, and terrified all at once, and he couldn’t tell for the life of him which one was winning out. 

They broke apart after a few scant moments, Dean with a sharp inhale that he didn’t know he needed. Jackson giggled and brought a hand to the side of his face, lightly stroking his jaw with his thumb. Letting out his own nervous puff of laughter, Dean brought his right hand up to mirror the gesture, only for Jackson to draw back with a hiss the second his fingers touched his cheek. 

“Motherfucker!” Jackson exclaimed, pawing at the spot Dean had barely managed to graze.

“W-what happened?” Dean stammered, eyes going wide, “What did I…” He trailed off as he took in the small but  deepening welt that was branded against his skin. Looking down at his treacherous hand, he found nothing out of the ordinary. There was just his palm and the fingers curling toward it, one of which was still encircled by the ring he had been gifted. The one made of a metal that was harmless unless you were a ghost or worse.

Much worse.

Dean’s vision narrowed to the thin strip of iron, dozens of flimsy excuses forming and crumbling in his mind. Something wasn’t right and he should have recognized the signs and seen through them from the start. Maybe he would have if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in the thing he wanted so badly coming easily and all of a sudden.

“I take it,” Jackson sighed, recapturing Dean’s attention, “that all that quiet is you putting two and two together, or at least trying to. Getting made twice in one day? Damn, must be losing my touch.”

“What are you?” Dean demanded, clenching his fists and fighting to keep the tremor out of his voice, “What did you do to him?”

“Relax,” the boy cooed, “You’re boyfriend’s fine, for now anyway. It’s just that I’m in the driver’s seat now.” Jackson’s eyes blinked, and when they opened they were an endless jet black that Dean had only read about.

“Shit,” Dean rasped.

“Dean Winchester!” the demon chastised, pressing a hand to Jackson’s chest, “Does your mother know you talk that way?”

“My mom would kick your demon ass,” he tossed back, taking what he hoped was a discreet step backward.

“Doubt it. Matter of fact, we got pretty chummy back at the house.”

“Liar.”

“You don't have to believe me. I’ll show you. Let's just grab little Sammy and we can head back home.” If Dean thought his heart was pounding before, it was nothing compared to this. He had no idea if there was any truth to the demons words--according to Bobby's journals they would say anything if it would get the what they wanted-- but no matter what may or may not be going on at home, he was now the only thing standing between his kid brother and a monster.

“You’re not getting anywhere near him,” he proclaimed, raising his chin with far more bravery than he actually felt. He took another step back, sucked in a deep breath to call out a warning, and was slammed against the wall beside the door with a bored flick of Jackson’s hand for his trouble. 

“A for effort kid, really” the demon sighed, sauntering up to where Dean was pinned, “Now seriously, are you gonna play nice or are we gonna have a problem?” Jackson’s eyes narrowed and he felt his insides twist as if being physically stirred, warping any planned reply he may have had into a strangled gasp.

“Hm?” the possessed boy asked, cupping his ear and leaning closer. The churning eased up and Dean let out an answer cough, an alarming, coppery wetness spreading across his tongue. At this rate, he wasn’t going to last long, but if anything the fear and agony he felt were a more powerful motivator than he could have hoped for to keep holding out. No way was he going to roll over and let this thing loose on Sam. 

Swallowing back another cough, Dean snarled,“Bite me.”

“Sure thing,’ the demon shrugged, “But remember, you asked for it.” The twisting in his gut resumed, and Dean shut his eyes against the mounting pain, praying to the only angel that he knew that he would think of a way out of this before he couldn’t think any more at all.

 

* * *

 

Mary approached the welcome mat at the top of the porch steps at an angle to avoid the final sigil beneath it, and what she hoped would pass for a defeated  glare over her shoulder, she swung the front screen door open and levered herself into the house. 

“Why thank you, Mare,” Azazel said brightly as he followed suit, “I--” He froze the moment both feet were planted inside the entryway, realization dawning on his stolen features. 

“You bitch,” he muttered, a decent measure of awe beneath the malice. Mary bolted into the kitchen, dodging around the demon as callously dropped the waitress’s body and either reached for her or attempted to summon powers he no longer had access to now that he was within the devil’s trap etched into the home’s foundations. At the time, it had been a fail safe, a crazy project at the height of her paranoia after she had taken a long hard look at Bobby’s journals, and one she had hoped she would never need. Now, it was her last hope if she was going to save what she had been fighting to preserve since the night she made that damnable deal. 

As she crossed over into the dining room at the back of the house, and the door against its far wall, she could hear Azazel’s steps, not lumbering or rushing toward her, but ambling at an easy pace that echoed out from the foyer.

“Hope you’re not thinkin’ of cuttin’ out on me,” he drawled, loud and mocking, “I mean, unless you’ve made peace with your man John not making it out alive. That OK with you, mother Mary?” Both she and the footfalls paused, Mary less than a foot away from the exit. John was very much a part of the life she was trying to hold together, but then there were boys, who were now at the mercy of the demon Azazel had sent to fetch them. Without question, she knew what choice her husband would want her to make, but he wasn’t the one who would have to have it all weighing down on him, not once all was said and done. 

“Damn you, John Winchester,” she cursed, reaching for the doorknob. 

“Mary,” a stern voice intoned beside her. Gasping, she jumped away from the door and whirled to her right, nearly tripping backward over a nearby chair and finding herself face to face with a young man that most certainly hadn’t been there before.

“Mary,” he repeated, blue eyes grave and as stormy as the weather, “You aren’t safe here.” 

She blinked back at him, her shock still palpable but clearing enough for her to reconcile a face she hadn’t seen in a decade with a tone and gaze that were, by now, irrevocably fixed in her memories. 

“Castiel?” she ventured, maintaining her distance.

“Yes,” he returned brusquely, “And while I’m sure you have many more questions, there isn’t time.”

“Everything all right in there, sweetheart?” John’s voice bellowed, “Still mulling things over?”

“Azazel,” Castiel spat, scowling in the direction of the voice with unmasked disgust. 

“So you know?” Mary pressed, “That John’s been--That he isn’t John?”

“My apologies,” he affirmed, “I underestimated your husband’s machinations and was unable to achieve physical form before it was too late.

“Too late” she repeated, “What do you--” Castiel held up a hand to cut her off, tilting his head as if straining to hear something faint. 

“What?” Mary whispered, glancing between him and the doorway, where the lazy creak of Azazel’s steps against the floorboards had yet to resume. 

Castiel’s eyes widened, “It’s Dean. He’s praying, or calling out to me. I believe… He is in great pain.” For the second time that day, and even more suddenly, Mary’s world tilted on its axis, and an icy fear clutched her heart in a death grip.

“We have to go,” Castiel insisted, his raspy baritone sounding distant beneath the pounding of her own pulse. He was right, about all of it. There wasn’t time, especially now that she knew for certain her children couldn’t wait any longer, but an idea was tugging at her now, struggling to break through the shock and terror. Castiel laid a hand upon her shoulder and as she turned to meet his gaze, it finally slid home.

“You go,” she ordered, her steely tone a stark contrast to the erratic rhythm hammering against her chest, “Go help my boys. They're at the movies downtown, you’ll get there faster than I ever could.”

“Mary,” Castiel frowned, “You can’t stay here.”

“Not before I couldn’t,” she agreed, shrugging out of his grasp, “But now you’re here, we can divide and conquer.”

“Azazel is a Prince of Hell. As I am now, I'm no match for him, and you are even less so.”

“He’s trapped and just about as powerless as he’s going to get.”

“He is never truly powerless. I know that your husband--”

“Is still in there, and I have to try. You told me once-- you said you made a promise to protect us, right?”

“Yes, all of you.”

“Well I’m telling you that Sam and Dean are always the priority. Always. None of your protection is worth anything if they don't make it. Now go!” Castiel squinted at her, consternation stamped plainly across his features. 

“Mary!” Azazel barked, the suddenness of the shout and the accompanying series of booted steps drawing her attention away from the angel long enough for him to have disappeared by the time she turned back to further convince him. She was on her own once more, but now with the small comfort that her kids had a fighting chance far beyond her own abilities. 

Nodding to herself, Mary crossed to the opposite side of the room where it opened to a hallway that would lead her back to the front of the house. Moving as quickly and quietly as humanly possible, she made her way up the passage, pressing herself to the wall when she reached the point where it terminated at bathroom door and a sharp left turn to yet another corridor. With a steadying breath, she peered around this corner and found the both the way forward and the entryway beyond it were clear of anyone living, or seemed to be at the very least. With all the blind spots surrounding her, it was impossible to tell exactly where the demon could be lying in wait, but that didn’t matter all that much, given where she was headed. 

A sharp, wooden squeak sounded behind her and crashed through her plotting. She didn’t need to look back to know its source, but she cast a glance over her shoulder nevertheless, eyes landing on her husband’s frame filling the the doorway she had passed through moments earlier. 

“And here I thought,” he mused, leaning a shoulder against the jamb, “Sneaking up on you would be a hoot, but damned if that look on your face isn’t worth ruining it. If you could see it, all that fear dancin’ in those baby blues... No ma’am there’s nothing quite like it. And believe you me, sweat pea, it only gets worse the more you struggle.” Gritting her teeth, Mary turned away from him and bolted around the corner, angling herself toward a door set in the wall beneath the stairs amidst rapid-fire stomps and a heavy groan of the floorboards that made it clear the chase was well and truly on. She managed to get a hand around the doorknob before he caught up with her and tangled his fingers in her hair to yank her backwards. 

“See what I mean?” he hissed into her ear. Mary cried out and swung back an elbow in reply, hurling herself forward against the door the moment she felt the demon recoil. The entryway splintered open against her momentum and she tumbled most of the way down the stairs behind it to the basement below, only regaining her feet at the last few steps. 

“You alright down there?” Azazel called, unmistakably amused, “Wouldn't be any fun at all if the stairs were the ones that got to break your neck.” She ignored him and the pain singing through her left shoulder to stagger deeper into the room toward the tiny office built into its right side.

“I oughtta thank you,” he added, his steps once again easy and deliberate as he followed her down, “I mean, honestly, I didn’t know how we were gonna pass the time until the kids got back. It’s been ages since I fooled around with a hot to trot gal like yourself, and I forgot just how much fun it could be.” Mary made it to the threshold of the enclosure before turning to face him, just in time to catch him rounding the corner and flashing a toothy grin.

“Last stand, huh?” he asked, swaggering closer, “You know, I could end this all right now. Bring the house down on both your heads just like that.” He snapped his fingers sharply and Mary flinched in spite of her resolve. 

“But I am oh so curious about what you’ve got planned.” He chuckled with her husband’s familiar, rich bass and she hated him all the more for it, hated how afraid she now was of the body before her. 

“You know what they say about curiosity,” she taunted, pouring all of her disgust into her response, and keeping her eyes level. 

“Ah but you’re forgetting,” he rejoined, purposefully running a tongue over his lips as he moved into reaching distance, “It may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought him back, and I plan to get that in spades. First, from you, and then your boy.”

“Not today, you son of a bitch,” she countered, “ _ Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus’--” _

“Seriously?” he sighed, “How disappointing.” He lunged for her and stopped just shy of where she stood, as if hitting an invisible wall. Narrowing his eyes, he glanced around wildly at his surroundings, freezing in place when his line of sight fell upon the devil’s trap carved into the ceiling directly above him.

“Clever, clever girl,” he sneered, crossing his arms, “But like I said, I could alway just wrap things up, nice and messy.” A low rumble began vibrating through the floor beneath her, ratcheting up her already speedy heartbeat, but she couldn’t stop. This was her only chance, if she had any at all. 

_ “Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio,” _ she continued,  _ “omnis congregatio--” _

“It’s pointless!” he insisted, “You’re not fast enough! Y-you’re not strong enough!.” The rumbling continued but at an even tremble, neither pitching up nor down in intensity.

“ _ Et secta diabolica,”  _ Mary chanted, lips curling into a wicked snarl of her own, “ _ Ergo draco maledicte, et omnis legio diabolica, adiuramus te...”  _ She may have been imagining it, wishing it enough to believe, but the quaking seemed to slow, just barely, but enough to register within her overtaxed awareness. For his part, Azazel appeared no worse for wear, though the mirth glistening in his yellow eyes seemed to have contorted to something far less pleased, something encouraging and yet all the more dangerous. 

“Fine then,” he sniffed, reaching toward John’s right hip and the sheathed blade resting against it, “How about… This?” He punctuated this last word by freeing weapon and burying it into the man’s chest, twisting the blade with a vicious and now bloody smile. Mary’s chanting tapered off into a choked scream and then her ability to produce any sound at all failed her completely. She could only stare at the blood seeping out of her husband, out of the father of her children. The man she had now failed to save. 

“That’s more like it,” Azazel cooed over her silence, “Now listen up. Johnny boy here ain’t gonna make it, not without some kind of special intervention. You kick me out, he’s a goner. The way I see it, we’re both at a disadvantage here, so it seems we’re staring down the barrel of mutually assured destruction… Or, another deal.”

A deal.

That was what had started all of this, what had ruined everything, and almost for the exact same reason. Once again there was hardly any winning and all the terrible choices lay on her hands. 

“Clocks a tickin’ babe,” the demon coaxed, “You gotta-- you-- You c-can’t, Mare.” Mary’s unfocused vision snapped back to stark clarity, and when she re-affixed her gaze to the man before her, she knew she was staring at her husband. She opened her mouth to try to give voice to her confusion, but he held up a hand to stop her.

“Don’t,” he coughed, blood dribbling down his chin, “You’ve still got that exorcism going. It’s p-partly how I busted through… Th-that and pu--ure bullheadedness, just l-like always.” He offered her a weak and gruesome smile, drawing a choked sob past her lips. 

“Baby,” he struggled on, “I-I’m so sorry. This is my f-fault. For not b-bein’ able to ha--andle all this like you… N--not bein’ as smart o..or as s--sstrong. If I’d’ve just he-held up a little b-better, t-tru-usted you…O-only thing I can think to do to m--make it any...where near right is to tell you to l-lllet me go. Let me go, Mary.” Mary shook her head, biting back another cry even as tears began to flow freely down her face. 

“Y-yes,” John insisted, “I--Ifff not f-ffor me, o-oor you, ffff--or the b--boys… P--please, Mary. Please.” At this final entreaty, she forced herself to meet her husband’s eyes, to see both the pain and the resolve there, alongside the decision she had to make and would forever despise. 

Clenching her jaw, tipped her head toward him in agreement and resumed weakly, “ _...cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare…” _

“L-llove you, Mary,” John gasped, “Sss-Stop! Don’t you see you’re k-killing him?” Mary looked away. She didn’t need to see the yellow seeping back into his irises to know that control had shifted once again.

She soldiered forward, battling her rage and anguish with every word, _ “Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciæ, hostis humanæ salutis…” _

“I--Is it really that easy for you? Azazel rasped, “Murdering your p--precious John Winchester?”

_ “Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei; contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine…” _

“I--I’ll come back! N-no matter wh-where you hide, I wiill find you!”

_ “Quem inferi tremunt... Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus--” _

_ “ _ Your son is m-- _ ” _

_ “Audi nos!”  _ John’s head snapped back and his mouth opened in a wide, soundless scream, black smoke billowing out of him and through an unsealed window high on the wall beside him. The moment the last of it had dissipated, he collapsed to the floor and Mary rushed to cradle his slackening body with the last of her energy. Somehow, her husband had enough left in him to raise a hand to her cheek and smile one last time.

“Th-hat’s… my girl,” he huffed, and then the remaining light went out of his eyes. 

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, too stunned to do much more than stare into the middle distance, arms still locked around John’s shoulders. She may never have moved at all, were it not for the creak of the stairs above her and the distinct sound of a shotgun being cocked. She jerked back, and craned her head up toward the source of the sound, finding a welcome sight all too late.    
“Mary?” Bobby mumbled, lowering his weapon enough to take in the nightmarish scene below, and for Mary to see the cuts and bruises scattered across his face.

“Mary,” he repeated, making his way down the steps, “I--” 

“Christo!” Mary yelled, frantically digging into John’s jacket for anything she could use to defend herself. Bobby stuttered to a halt at the base of the stairs but didn’t flinch, instead laying his gun down and edging closer with his hands raised. Without another word, he entered the devil’s trap, stepped back out of it, and then circled it to stand next to her. Mary’s shoulders slackened, and she allowed her hand to slide out of her husband’s pocket. 

“I’m sorry,” Bobby muttered, “We-- I tried...” He trailed off, but Mary didn’t need him to finish in order to understand. She was sorry too, and she had tried her damndest at every turn, only to end up back at the beginning. Or, not quite the beginning; there were two very important differences now.

“What can I do?” Bobby near-whispered, “Do you want me to take him...”

“There isn’t time,” Mary returned stiffly, at last relinquishing her hold,  “The boys are still--” The shrill ring of the telephone interrupted her reply, and before long Sam’s voice was echoing through from the office answering machine.

“Mom! Mom, please pick up! It’s Dean! We-- please!”

 

* * *

 

Dean’s insides were on fire and writhing as if trying to escape from the body that held them. So far, he had managed to keep his reactions down to muted grunts and bitten off whines, but he could feel a cry bubbling up in his throat. He wasn’t sure how long he had held out, but it wasn’t long enough, not when he was still without a plan and Sam was still within earshot.

“Come on, Dean,” the demon urged, “Let it out. You’ll feel better, and the minute your baby bro shows up, we can get this show on the road.” Dean clenched his jaw hard enough to have his upper lip twitching and shook his head as much as his limited range of motion would allow.

“Suit yourself,” it concluded, shrugging Jackson’s shoulders and flicking his fingers toward him dismissively. Dean felt himself slide further up the wall, enough that his feet no longer touched the ground, and the roiling in his gut became a white hot searing that at last had him screaming in agony. 

Several things happened in rapid succession, fast enough that even without his dulled senses Dean likely would have found his head spinning. Sam shoved into the bathroom, face shifting from confusion to naked terror as he took in the scene before him. The invisible hold on Dean fell away and he slumped to the tiled floor as the demon turned from him to his brother. It moved to take a step toward him, mouth twisting into a cruel smile, but it was stopped and spun around by a man who had appeared out of thin air, right before Dean’s bleary eyes.

With an audible snarl, the newcomer slammed Jackson’s body against the wall of urinals, shattering one with the force of their movement. 

“My oh my!” the demon chuckled roughly, “If it isn’t the traitor himself! Been a while, Castiel.” The heavy fog that had settled over Dean in the wake of his tortured waned at the mention of his friend’s name.

“Cas? he muttered, squinting at the tussling pair while struggling to hoist himself up. 

“You,” the man--Castiel--snarled, “Made a grave mistake in coming here, in laying a hand on that boy.” 

“We were just playing, Clarence,” the thing inside Jackson argued, wriggling in his grip, “Wouldn’t want Dean over there to feel left out, considering the one dad can’t wait to get his hands on is Sa--” Castiel reared back and struck the demon hard across the face, splitting Jackson’s lip and splashing his blood across the broken porcelain. 

“Dean!” Sam hissed, suddenly beside him and clutching at one of his sleeves, “What’s happening? What’s wrong with your friend?”

“S’Not him,” Dean choked, finally regaining his footing with his brother’s help, “Demon.”

“What?” Sam yelped, stealing a glance at Dean’s possessed classmate, “How? And who’s that fighting--”

“You gotta get out of here, Sammy. C’mon.” One hand clutching his still aching stomach, he started shoving his brother toward the exit, trying his hardest to ignore the snarling and echoing sounds of the scuffle behind them. 

“What about you?” Sam threw back, gripping the door’s handle but making no move to open it. A scream-- Jackson’s scream-- cut through the air before he could answer. Twisting to look back over his shoulder, he was met with the sight of his friend’s eyes and open mouth stretched wide, each radiating a strange light as Castiel clutched at his forehead. Just as the light seemed to grow even brighter, the angel let go, but only long enough for the terrible glow to dim and the shrieking to taper off. When both had nearly faded to a dull glimmer and ragged gasps, he pressed his hand to their skull to begin again. 

Over the years, he and the angel had spoken about what he used to be, what he had done when his own family had abandoned him to the actual devil. He had understood and always forgiven, in part because of all Castiel had done for his family, and because the older he grew the more he understood that even the good guys could and did screw up. But another part, one he didn’t know existed until now, had been able to see past all of  it because he couldn’t really see it to begin with, could never all the way imagine his powerful, yet dorky, out of touch friend as any kind of monster. He could now though, with the unchecked savagery distorting his features, and the way he was making the boy he was holding scream. Jackson was possessed, sure, but based on everything Dean knew he was still in there, and from the looks of it, Castiel was burning him inside and out. His first priority, always, was getting Sam to safety, but he couldn’t let one of his friends kill the other.

“Sam,” he said, quietly but firm, “I need you to get out of here. Call mom, and tell her to come get us.”

“Dean,” he protested, “You can’t stay--” 

“Listen,” he snapped, “That other guy, he’s--” Dean groped for a satisfactory explanation, faltering away precious seconds in the process. Outside of a few likely half-forgotten, post-nightmare reassurances of bygone years, he and Sam had hardly discussed Castiel at all. It had been at the angel’s own urging that he not go into detail, but even without such a promise it had never been something Dean had been compelled to explain, especially when, up until now anyway, the being in question had largely existed in his dreams. As it stood, this was neither the time nor the place to delve into the topic at any length. 

“He won’t hurt me,” Dean settled on, “and he won’t let that thing hurt me either. 

“How do you even know that?” Sam questioned sharply, “That doesn’t make any--”

“Trust me, he won’t! So just go, ok?” Lips trembling, Sam yanked open the door and darted through it just as Jackson let out another agonized howl. Muscling past his trepidation, Dean rushed toward the pair and grabbed onto the hand Castiel had fisted into Jackson’s shirt.. 

“Cas!” he shouted, “You gotta stop! You’re killing him!” Castiel ignored him and instead seemed to grip Jackson’s skull even tighter, drawing more light from his body. 

“Cas!” he repeated desperately, tugging against the iron grip, “Stop, man! He’s still in there!” Putting all of his weight behind his efforts, Dean managed to shake Castiel just enough to gain his partial attention, but rather than come to his senses, he paused only to roughly shove Dean to the ground. He landed with a pained cry of his own, and it was the echoing of this latest outburst that finally worked to rouse the angel out of his murderous trance. Tearing his gaze away from his victim, he looked down at Dean, eyes wide and strangely fearful. 

“Dean,” he croaked, his inexplicable method of torture ceasing altogether, “Dean, I’m--” Using this brief respite of inattention, the possessed boy rolled away from Castiel’s slackened grip and tilted his head back to spew an inky cloud of smoke that flowed into a nearby vent and out of sight. Jackson’s vacated body immediately crumpled to the floor, and after a few beats of silent consideration, Castiel returned his attention to Dean. His face had softened even further now, a complete opposite of what it had been moments ago, and yet when he moved to take a step toward him, Dean felt an irrepressible fear rising in his chest.

“Don’t! he blurted, scuttling backward, “Stay away from me.” 

Castiel flinched as if slapped, faint confusion and something like hurt finding their way into his expression, “Dean, please. Let me--”

“I said stay away!” he sobbed, “Just… Leave us alone.” Castiel’s mouth opened and snapped shut with an aborted reply, and when his mouth twitched with what may have been another attempt, the bathroom door swung inward again, snatching Dean’s focus to a nearly breathless Sam standing in the entryway. 

“Mom and Uncle Bobby are coming!” he panted, “I think-- Holy crap! That guy just-- he’s gone!” Twisting back around, Dean found that Castiel had indeed disappeared, leaving him alone in both the wreckage of the room and an evening he had imagined far differently when the day began. 

 

* * *

 

As ordered by the eldest Winchester child, Castiel speeded away from the site of his attack, his very being swirling with a tempestuous series of sensations he couldn’t seem to calm. By all logic, he had minimized the damage of John’s disastrous plan far beyond expectation. Both boys were alive and in spite of the lesser demon’s actions, no irreparable damage had been done, not even to the boy it had possessed. In that regard, at least part of his mission had been a success, and yet the emotions he was feeling held little kinship with victory. No matter his rationalizations, he could only hear Dean’s tearful entreaties for him to keep back, remember the fear and mistrust in his eyes, all of which Castiel had more than earned.

He had lost control in his battle with the demon, and gone farther than he had needed to in almost every way. He could have very easily banished the abomination from the body it had taken, and without a fraction of the pain he had inflicted, but he had decided against it the moment he felt the breadth of Dean’s own suffering. He had wanted the demon to hurt, to inflict the kind of pain he had perfected in his time as Hell’s de facto ruler, all because Dean…

He forced the troubling thoughts away before they could reach their conclusion, willing matters at hand to the forefront of his mind in spite of the passionate eddys still attempting to divert his attentions. He had seen to the boys and now it was time to return to their mother, to see if he had made yet another error in yielding to Mary’s entreaty. She had been right about her sons being the priority, perhaps more than she could ever know, but his protection extended to the entire family and he was loathe to abandon this position with any measure of ease. 

Arriving at the Winchesters’ home, Castiel was just in time to see Mary and, to his surprise, Bobby Singer, loading themselves into John’s vehicle, no doubt on their way to retrieve Sam and Dean. Again, it was a far better outcome all things considered, but this triumph did little to assuage the sinking feeling of defeat the longer he observed the stony, almost vacant cast of Mary’s gaze, and, more so, the marked absence of her husband. With a kind of reluctance unlike anything he had ever felt before, Castiel entered the house to confirm his grim suspicions, finding answers he had already been expecting in its lowest levels.

If he was in better possession of himself and his still fledgling emotions, Castiel would have been able to embrace the inevitability of it all, to gaze upon John’s bloodied, lifeless body and reason that there was little he could have done once Azazel took control, perhaps even coldly conclude that this loss could, by all rights, be counted as the removal of a longstanding liability. But he was no longer the same being that he once was, in creation or even at the beginning of this particular guardianship, and the sight of this casualty once more ripped the tenuous hold on his feelings far outside of his grasp. The family--his family to protect-- was fractured and imperiled, and the charge he held the most attachment to now feared him as he would any other monster, all because he had grown far too complacent in the bond itself, and as a result had done both too much and too little.

Unable to bear the visage of the epicenter of his failures any longer, Castiel fled once more, this time transporting himself to the grounds of his vessel’s residence. Unable to recall the exact location of Jimmy’s domicile amidst his mounting distress, he set down beside the building he knew to house it, leaned against the nearest wall, and hastily detached from his physical form. As Jimmy slowly regained control of his body, Castiel hovered above him unseen and unseeing, too consumed with his own thoughts to be truly present anywhere. Gripped with shame and indecision, he puzzled over how to proceed, wrestling with issues of his fitness as a protector after his varied and monumental failures, and his senseless backslide into actions more befitting of a Prince of Hell than a guardian of beings as fragile as children. All but paralyzed with thought and conflicting sentiment, he did not perceive the girl across the street beckoning to his drowsy vessel, nor was he conscious of the man fully snapping to attention when the young woman attempted to cross to him, heedless of the vehicle speeding toward her. It wasn’t until after, after Jimmy had run headlong into the road, shoved the girl out of the way and taken the full force of the collision, that Castiel was jolted back to some semblance of sense, and in keeping with the rest of the day, his awareness was yet again far too late.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings (in order)
> 
> -Minor/OC death: The woman Meg possesses.  
> -Non-consensual kiss between an minor and a demon: Possessing Jackson's body, Meg kisses Dean.  
> -Major, canonical character death: John Winchester  
> -Violence against a minor: Castiel attacks Meg while she is in the body of a 14 year old body.  
> -Brief description of a pedestrian/vehicular collision.
> 
> Again, sorry this one is so rough. I think this may be the toughest chapter in the entire work.


	11. Keys to the Highway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eight years after the Winchester's last day in Sioux Falls, a hunt puts them one step closer to means of putting an end to their demonic troubles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Yes, I am alive and no, this fic has not been abandoned. To those of you still with me, thanks for hanging in there while I got myself together. With any luck, we'll be back to regular updates for 2019.

**July 11th 2001, Manning, Colorado**

 

 Mary placed her hands on her knees and stood, carefully pocketing her meager findings before wending her way past crime scene markers to where Dean was speaking with the officer in charge of the scene.

“Agent McVie?” she called, breaking into their likely routine conversation, “I think we’re done here.” Dean lifted his chin in acknowledgement and reached out to the man he had been questioning.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” he said as they clasped hands, “Either myself, or Agents Fleetwood and Nicks will be in touch.” The officer muttered a clipped but civil goodbye and dropped their mutual grasp to head back to the rest of his team, passing Mary with a nod.

“So,” Dean began, “That an empty handed all done here, or…?” Mary pressed her lips into a tight line and gestured with a tilt of her head for him to follow her back to the nearby lane where they had parked the car.

“Anything?” Sam greeted from where he leaned against the Impala’s hood.

“It’s what we thought,” Mary replied, reaching into her suit jacket and drawing out the tiny piece of evidence she had lifted.

Dean leaned in to examine the sliver of enamel pinched between her fingers, “What is it? A vampire fang?”

“No fangs,” she corrected gently, “Teeth. The second set descends when they attack.”

“Huh,” he said, “Guess Elkins and the other old timers didn’t take ‘em all out after all.” Mary scoffed and swatted at her eldest son’s shoulder.

“Guess not. Also, watch it with that old timer talk. I was around for some of those hunts.

“Present company excluded, obviously.” Dean flashed her a pacifying grin that barely stood up to the practiced look of motherly skepticism she returned.

“Anyway,” Mary continued, tucking the tooth away, “From the looks of it, they’re headed West.”

“That makes sense,” Sam agreed eagerly, “If we’re going on M.O. alone, there were a few incidents even before Elkins that make it look like they’ve been on a pretty steady path.”

“Wow,” Dean added, “Looks like you and Mr. Mullet’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, actually,” Sam tossed back with a smirk, “He says hi by the way. Wants to know if you listened to that mixtape he made you.”

A faint blush crept into Dean’s cheeks,“W-what? I don’t--”

“Boys,” Mary interrupted, glancing between the two of them sternly, “I didn’t bring you along to bicker. Think you can behave or do I have to bench you and scare up some those old timers?”

“Sorry, mom,” they both mumbled.

“Alright then,” she nodded, “We’re going to have to double back to get around the detour, so let’s get a move on.” She moved to the impala’s front passenger side and lowered herself into the car, pretending not to hear the final, familiar volley of name calling her sons launched at one another before loading into the driver and back seats respectively.

In truth, it was somewhat of a relief to lend her attention to reigning in her children, young adults that they were, rather than fixate on the fears this case inspired. In the wake of the May evening that had robbed her of her husband and home, she had further given in to the idea that her boys would indefinitely share in the life she had failed so many times to escape. She didn’t like it, not in the slightest, but she knew that after what had happened to them that night it would be better to guide them through it rather than try to keep them from it. For the most part, barring the first miserable handful of months they had all spent wallowing in the aftermath, things had gone smoothly-- at least in the sense that no one else had been maimed or killed. It had helped that she hadn’t been alone through it all, what with Bobby doing his damnedest to be of use and Ellen burying her grief in tending to the remains of both her immediate and extended family. That said, she would never get over the nerves of sending her kids out to do battle with literal monsters, especially when said monsters were an almost certainly a full nest of vampires responsible for the death of a veteran hunter. It was times like these that she wished Ellen hadn’t retired, that Bobby hadn’t retreated into research and phone backup, or that any of them knew how to get a hold of Rufus. Hell, if he wasn’t so glued to his damn machines, she would have taken the boys’ oddball computer friend if it meant sparing them from something this dangerous.

“So,” Dean said, eyes fixed on the stretch of asphalt he was steering them down, “Just... West? Or we got some place a little more specific?”

“Ash had some ideas,” Sam replied, “But there’s an abandoned farmland that sounded about right.”

“An old barn?” he mused, “Weird.”

“What were you expecting? A creepy mansion or an underground rave? Dean, you know better than anybody that all that movie stuff is crap anyway.”

“Most of the time,” Mary chimed in, with a shrug, “Every now and again some of the younger, nuttier ones buy into it.”

“Mom, don’t encourage him,” Sam groaned.

“All I’m saying,” she argued, “Is that I would be lying if I said all the stereotypes are made up. Did I ever tell you about the time I took down a witch with an actual pointy hat?” She turned a wry smile toward her older son, but he kept his gaze forward and chewed on his lip instead of adding anything further. She frowned and opened her mouth to question his sudden silence, but he came back to the present before she had the chance.

“Good for them,” he said, “the vamps I mean. Beatin’ the cliche and all.”

“Blade wasn’t a documentary, Dean,” Sam quipped.

“So we got a game plan once we get there?” Dean pressed, ignoring his brother’s jab.

“Once we’re sure where the nest is,” Mary outlined, “We go in at dawn with crossbows, dead man’s blood, and big, sharp knives. We’ll keep a clear path to the exits and do what needs to be done, nice and quiet.”

“I thought the lore said sunlight doesn’t stop them,” Sam said.

“It doesn’t. But it stings enough that it’ll slow them down if we need to get away in a hurry. I’m hoping it won’t come to that though.”

“Alright,” Dean agreed, something tentative in his tone, “But I wasn’t just talking about Bela and the Lugosis. I mean... What about the colt?” Sam kept any response he may have had to himself, and Mary’s shoulders tensed. Until now, they hadn’t taken the time to discuss the half-raving contents of the letter Daniel Elkins’ final, desperate moments had directed them to, or the fact that the magic gun in question was nowhere to be found in his ransacked home. A part of her had hoped they could just set the whole matter aside, at least until the end of the hunt, but even before now she had known it was a foolish thing to expect. None of them had laid eyes on a demon since they had fled Sioux Falls, and between the lessons of past experience and a series of ultimately unnecessary promises between the three of them, no one had gone looking. But, if her own troubled thoughts over the past decade were any indication, fear of another deadly upheaval and notions of vengeance were never completely out of mind. Along those lines, a magic weapon sounded more than a little appealing, but she didn't need a repeat of past tragedies to tell her that it never was or would be that easy.

“Dean,” she began evenly, “I know that, between your dad’s journals and Daniel’s letter, that gun sounds like a priority--”

“What it sounds like is an answer, mom,” he clarified, briefly turning a wide-eyed glance her way, “I mean, to all of it.”

“We don’t know that,” Mary argued, “Even if it can take down the worst monsters, it doesn’t mean we should lose our heads, on this hunt or when it comes to worse things out there.”

“But mom--”

“You listen to me, Dean Winchester. Some mythical gun doesn’t change how dangerous these things are. Being armed with something like that doesn't take away the powers or the centuries of knowledge that the worst of them have. Even something as powerful as Ca--”

“Don't,” Dean cut in, not so much warning as he was pleading, and Mary instantly regretted the slip. From what she could understand of her sons’ combined accounts, the angel had saved them as promised, but the haunted look in Dean's eyes, even before she had told them about John, and his refusal to speak of Castiel at any length told her something had still gone wrong. He had never been especially vocal about his overpowered friend to begin with, but mentions of him had suddenly become non-existent, bordering on taboo, and as time passed Mary began to wonder if he had disappeared just as thoroughly as the demons he had driven off.

“I mean,” Sam added at last, “It couldn’t hurt, right? There isn’t a lot to go on, but if the gun can do half of what the legends say, having it wouldn’t be bad.”

“Look,” she returned, halfway grateful for redirect, “Like it or not, we have to focus on what’s in front of us, and right now that’s a nest full of vampires that can and will kill anyone that crosses them without a plan. Anything else pops up, we’ll take it as it comes, just like we always do. Deal?” She glanced back at Sam for good measure, but after he nodded she returned her attention to Dean, whose own gaze was pointedly locked on the road ahead. After a beat, he bobbed his head stiffly and reached out to fiddle with the car’s radio.

“Right,” he said with a sniff, “So, where’s the dead man’s blood comin’ from? Last I checked, we don’t have any in Baby’s trunk.” Some of Mary’s tension eased, and a hint of fondness found its way into her otherwise wary study of her son.

“If I heard the cops right, county morgue’s not far off,” she replied, “As soon as we’re sure about the nest, we’ll head there. Hopefully, there won’t be enough security that we’ll have a second set of problems on our hands.”

“Buncha dead guys? he asked, fingers pausing on the dial when Kansas crackled over the car speakers, “shouldn’t be too heavy right? It’ll probably be a piece of cake--or pie even. Matter of fact, I wouldn’t say no to a slice between here and the head choppin’.”

“Salad might be better,” Sam cut in snidely, “You know, just in case it’s not a piece of anything and you have to, I don’t know, run?”

“Man need’s fuel, Sammy,” he argued, voice deepening in an unconscious imitation of his father that was almost as eerie as it was endearing, “And rabbit food ain’t gonna cut it.”

“Actually, nutritionally speaking--” Mary sighed and eased back into her half of the bench seat as they continued their good-natured bickering. She knew that the discussion of the colt was far from over, but she would gladly accept the pin that the boys seemed to be putting in it for now. They had a hunt to get through, and if they managed to do it without a hitch--angels, demons, even god willing-- she’d be happy to argue with them about what they did or didn’t find in the vampires’ nest.

 

* * *

 

After Sioux Falls, Dean had learned to live by Murphy’s Law in the extreme. It didn’t matter that things had settled, that eight years after almost everything important had been ripped away they had found measured safety in Nebraska with Ellen, Bobby, and Jo. No matter the time or the relative quiet outside of the hunts they chose, he could never convince himself to expect anything but the worst. Be it a job, a hookup, or just a regular old Tuesday afternoon, he was almost always more at ease with a bumpy ride than a smooth one. It was pessimistic and more than a little depressing, but at the end of the day he preferred alive and morbidly skeptical to head in the clouds corpse.

With that screwed up world view in mind as they moved through the barn the vampires had claimed, Dean blamed his excess tetchiness on how well things were going. From tracking the place down, to robbing the morgue, and then one by one quietly darting and decapitating the monsters in question, it was all too easy and it practically made his skin crawl. It wasn’t that he didn’t want the hunt to go well, especially not with what they were up against, he simply couldn’t trust it.

As he scanned the hammocks strung around the barn, most of the monsters bedded in them now headless, Mary caught his eye, first gesturing between him and two remaining vampires, and then herself and a hallway at the room’s opposite end, a silent question in the tilt of her head. Dean glanced over to where Sam was loading another blood-tipped arrow into his crossbow, waiting for his nod before offering one of his own. Reaching out to give his shoulder a parting squeeze, Mary holstered her machete against her thigh and crept toward the corridor to leave them with what was left of the nest.

“Dean,” Sam whispered. He turned away from his mother’s retreating figure and saw that his brother had moved deeper into the dwelling to a kneel beside a worn, wooden pillar. Starting forward, Dean bent to duck beneath the nearest hammock and underestimated the clearance just enough to jostle the canvas sling’s still sleeping occupant. Jerking back sharply, he dropped his hands to the crossbow hanging at his side, all the while glaring down at the vampire he had disturbed and waiting for things to go belly up. Instead, the man smacked his lips and continued sleeping, leaving Dean to wrestle back his mounting unease and continue forward, this time sidestepping the hammock to join his brother.  Once he drew up beside Sam, he found that his earlier vantage had hidden a bound and bloodied woman slumped against the post. Dropping into a crouch, he started tugging at the knots that held her in place, only to have a dull clanging over his shoulder pull his attention to a row of cages along the left side of the barn.

“There’s more,” he muttered, popping up stalk over to the metal enclosure and peer between its wire-like bars. It was hard to get a definite count in the purposeful dark of the room, but with some squinting he could make out at least four more sleeping or unconscious victims and, upon shifting his gaze to the prison itself, a padlocked chain that secured them. Casting around for a way to free the would-be victims, his eyes fell upon a rusted hook hanging against the cell, and without a second thought, he snatched it from its resting place and jammed it into the lock’s keyhole. Another clang reverberated through the air as the mechanism broke open and Dean froze a second time, ignoring the weight of Sam’s glare as he once again prepared for the inevitable fallout, but just as before the stillness seemed to hold. Allowing himself a low, steadying breath, he palmed the ruined padlock and set to work on carefully unwinding the chain from the cage door. He nearly had one loop pulled away when he heard a soft rustling back in the direction of the pillar.

“Hey,” he heard Sam begin, voice soft but insistent amidst more sounds of stirring, “Hey, Hey, Shh. I’m here to help you.” There was a pause, and then with one unearthly scream the fragile quiet was shattered at last.

Dean felt something not all that far off from relief as he whirled back to his brother and the belatedly rising vampires. Now that they had officially hit fuck it, he could stop worrying about worst case scenarios.

“Sam!” he shouted, dropping the chain to haul up his crossbow and level it at the approaching threat. For his part, Sam had already managed to scramble to his feet and lay hands on his own weapon, but his action appeared to have stopped there, the reluctance in his expression plain as he aimed at the captive-turned-monster.

“Sam,” he repeated sternly, eyes darting between him and the angry remains of the nest,  “She’s one of them now. You can’t--” The resounding cracks of two gunshots cut through the rest of his reasoning, and for a moment Dean’s deadly resolve faltered in the face of what that sound meant, good or bad; most likely bad if history was anything to go on. Clenching his jaw, he did what he could to rein in his rising panic, focus on keeping Sam alive, but something must have shown on his face enough to draw a nasty grin from one of the undead.

“Friend of yours back there?” he sneered, “Because it looks like they just met the business end of the boss’s new toy. Hope it wasn’t anybody important.”

Dean’s lip curled defiantly, “Big talk from someone with their own pointy set of problems, Fright Night.”

“We could say the same,” the other spat, her face twisted with rage, “Now that you can’t finish us off in our sleep.” Before he could offer a retort, verbal or otherwise, the girl in front of Sam shrieked again, and Dean twisted toward the sound in time to see his brother finally work up the nerve to fire on her, a bolt burying itself in her stomach just as she toppled him backward. Using the distraction to its advantage, the other vampires closed the distance between them and pinned him against cage, one pressing its forearm tightly against his windpipe while the other breathed hotly against his neck. His weapon now trapped against his body, Dean let go of the trigger, fumbling both hands along the foregrip to the attached quiver at its side. When he felt his fingers close around a pair of the bolts, he wrenched his arms sideways and stabbed the arrow into the soft flesh between the vampires’ ribs

“Nice try kid,” the one holding him chuckled.

“It barely even stings.” the woman added, panting into his ear.

“G--give it time, sweetheart,” he rasped, “Arrow’s--soaked in dead man's blood.” The man’s eyes twitched and then dropped heavily, and after a handful of seconds Dean felt their hold loosen enough for him to wrench himself free and shove his groggy attackers aside.

“Sammy?” he croaked, turning to where his brother was disentangling himself from the monster he had poisoned into unconsciousness.

“I’m good,” he returned, staggering to his feet but holding steady once he was standing.

“Good,” he repeated, running a hand over his neck, “Cuz we’re not done. I don’t know what’s back there but Mom’s--”

“Right here,” her voice supplied. Dean’s gaze shot over to the hallway, where his mother was stepping over its threshold to make her way back to them. Her gait was a bit stiff and there was blood splashed across her pant legs, but from what Dean could tell she was no more worse for wear than they were. Heaving a shaky sigh, Sam rushed over to meet her halfway and Dean followed behind him, granting the tension in his shoulders permission to bleed out.

“You’re alright?” Sam asked once they had regrouped, “After the scream and the gunshots, I thought....” Sam trailed off, mouth twisting into a guilty frown.

“I’m OK,” she said gently, “Right before that scream woke up the two vampires in the back room, I got lucky and got a hold of a gun hanging next to the bed--” She, reaching down to a weathered gun belt that Dean had missed when she first reappeared, and pulled out an old revolver with pentagrams cut into either side of its wooden handle.

Dean’s eyes widened, “Is that--is that what I think it is?”

“One shot each and they went down,” she replied, taking a beat to marvel at it herself, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“So, it’s real?” Sam pressed, a faint excitement edging into his tone, “Samuel Colt’s gun? Elkins wasn’t crazy?”

“Not about this, anyway.”

“Holy shit,” Dean murmured.”

“Language, Dean Winchester.”

He scoffed, flapping his arms against his sides, “Come on, mom. This thing-- It’s huge. It means we’ve finally got a shot--literally!” Mary shook her head, brow furrowing as she tucked the gun back into its holster.

“For now,” she reasoned, unsheathing he machete, “It means we live to finish this job and fight another day. The rest can wait until we’re back home, alright?” She raised an eyebrow that would have brooked no argument even if there weren’t three stunned vampires left to deal with, forcing Dean to swallow his argument and draw his own blade in agreement.

From there, it was all quick, dirty work: beheading what was left of the nest, freeing its captives, and sending all the gory remains up in smoke. At this point, the bulk of it was mindlessly routine and it was a good thing too, because most of Dean’s thoughts were increasingly occupied with what they had found and what they could do with it. By the time all was said and done and they were loading back into the impala, the colt was practically all he could think about.

“Dean?” Mary asked, snapping his attention back to the present and the concerned look his mother was giving him over the impala between them, “Did you hear me?”

“Sorry” returned, forcing his features into something neutral, “Run it by me one more time?”

“I asked if you were good to drive,” she repeated,“But I think I have my answer. Switch with me. That way, you both can rest.” Dean chuckled, glancing into the back seat where Sam had passed out against one of the windows like a gargantuan kid.

“Nah, I’m good,” he insisted, “Just, uh, long day already, ya know?” Mary leaned against the top of the car, her expression somehow less at ease.

“I know you want to get back home,” she began, “So that we can really look into the gun and start doing something after all this time--”

“Mom,” he cut in, “You don’t have to--”

“I just want you to know that we will,” she asserted, “It scares the hell out of me, but I promise you we will. I haven’t let any of it go, you just have to be patient with me.”

“I know mom,” he nodded, tugging open the driver’s side door, “We’ll figure it out.” He offered her a small smile and lowered himself behind the wheel, waiting until they’d both shut themselves in before starting the engine.

He didn’t blame her for putting things off, not after everything she’d been through, but the fact that the threat still hung heavy over all of them was exactly why they couldn’t let sleeping demons lie forever. He hated not being completely honest with her, especially when he knew how hard she was trying, but he wasn’t up for any more years of looking over his shoulder, waiting for it all to blow up like last time. They had the colt now, and for better or worse-- and he was sure as hell prepared for worse-- he was going to find the bad before it found them and send it back to hell where it belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this chapter was a little familiar to anyone, awesome, because this was a shamelessly quoted re-work of "Dead Man's Blood."  
> Also, if some of you are wondering, 'where's Cas in all this?' don't worry. By next chapter, you will have your answers :)


End file.
